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The Forsaken 


By 


IVAN TREPOFF 

y>'\j - 


‘‘DEINE SEELE ABER WIRD EIN SCHWERDT 
DURCHDRINGEN” 



Cochrane Publishing Company^ 

Tribune Building, New York 


1910 



Copyright, 1910, by 
Cochrane Publishing Co. 


€ « 


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€ '1A365914 


PKEFACE. 


People of soft sensibilities, of narrow prejudices 
or sickly sentimentality, as well as all mollycoddles 
and weaklings, are advised not to read this book. 
Aged spinsters of puritanical proclivities would be 
shocked; pious preachers, whose religion is tied 
down to old forms and creeds, would say that the 
ethics of the book were monstrous ; prudes would 
cry out that the story was frightfully immodest. 

It is written for people who can bear to read the 
truth, no matter how hard it cuts, nor how brutally 
frank is its presentation. Those who cry out about 
the divorce evil and who shout for reform of divorce 
laws — meaning laws to prevent and reduce divorces 
— need to be told of the causes that make divorces 
not only right, but really obligatory upon occasions. 

Marriages are made by individuals, not by 
churches; if the union goes wrong the individuals 
are the ones who suffer. To force them to continue 
to cohabit after love has departed is itself a crime. 
To uphold as sacred the tying of a woman, a mother, 
to the “bed and board” of a bestial man, whom she 
hates, is one of the most awful crimes that a foolish 
priesthood has ever allowed itself to foist on its 
unthinking followers. 


PEEFACE 


The church in bygone days has burned martyrs at 
the stake. Is that any worse than to refuse a Avomau 
diAmrce from a man suffering from a vile disease? 
We regard the burning of martyrs as the height of 
barbarism. A future age will look upon us who 
advocate restriction of divorce as on a parallel with 
ancient inquisitors and users of the rack and 
torture. 

The Avriter of this book has dared to tear aside 
the veil of modesty in the opening chapters and to 
tell the lurid tale of what one Avoman did Avhose 
church denied her a right to divorce, and as a con- 
.sequence the right to be a happy mother. 

Let no folloAver of that church or of any other 
feel that it is singled out for attack. The author 
lias no quarrel with the church, as such, but only 
Avith the teaching of immoral doctrine by the 
church. They may place this book on the Expur- 
gata list if they Avill, but some Avill read it, and 
some Avill heed the lesson ; and some day some one 
in each church Avill liaA’e the courage to rise and 
say, “We are doing Avrong. Let us mend our Avays, 
and no longer blight the liA^es of the mismated by 
decreeing against divorce.” 

Let no reader infer from the foregoing that this 
book is a plea for general divorce. Where the 
breach between husband and wife is not too serious, 
by all means let every poAAfer be exerted to heal it; 


PEEFACE 


but when aversion has turned to hate, when loathing 
has succeeded indifference, let the bonds be severed 
simply and quickly. The only right of the State in 
the matter is that the children of such unhappy 
unions are not neglected. The only right of the 
church is to bless the pair, wedded or single. 


The Publisher. 


/ 



The Forsaken 


CHAPTEE I. 

The groom, a slender dark-haired man of thirty, 
whose scalp was visible through dry crinkled hair, 
straightened up his shoulders like a tired wayfarer 
who has just reach(!d a goal. The ceremony was 
over. The fair-haired bride slid her glove hand 
into her husband’s arm and walked with bowed 
head toward the entrance of the church. 

The odor of rapidly decomposing flowers fllled 
the air. A breeze from the open door blew the trail- 
ing veil back from her face. A bluish discoloring 
vein near the outer angle of the eyelid stood out 
in contrast to the thin indefinitely colored eye- 
brow. 

She sniffed the fresh warm air from the door 
through transparent nostrils. The soft white fabric 
of her gown rose with the breath. At the root of the 
neck a slight elevation outlined the collar bone; a 
pinkish hue suffused the white cheek. 

A ray of sunlight filtered through the stained 
glass window, with an added red from the gown of 
the pain-racked mother gazing tearfully at the bleed- 


8 


THE FOKSAKEN 


ing feet of the Christian Saviour. It fell on the 
groom’s sparsely covered brow, enhancing a copper- 
colored daub at the roots of the hair close to the 
temple. Its brilliancy made him wince. The 
shadow of a fluted column supporting the organ loft 
caused him to look up. His eyes met those of a 
man leaning against the door frame. He drew back 
for an instant, half bowed and walked on. 

‘‘Who is that man, Harry?” the bride asked. 

“That is Doctor Manteufel.” 

The usher at the door held up his hand. “Your 
carriage will be up in a moment,” he said to the 
groom. 

The bridal pair halted. The bride stood quite close 
now to the man at the door. Her eyes ran rapidly 
over the correctly bef rocked figure. To reach his 
face she had to quite raise her head. Her glance 
took in the closely cropped light brown beard, went 
on to a pair of serene, steady gTay eyes, over the 
broad wkite forehead to the short hair slightly 
darker than the beard, and already sprinkled with 
gray at the sides in singular contrast to the smooth 
unwrinkled cheek. 

She looked back at his eyes. They were still fixed 
steadily on her face. She pressed her angular 
shoulder close to the groom’s arm. The man’s eyes 
left her face, and as though bidden by some compel- 
ling force she followed them to the copper colored 
smudge on her husband’s forehead. 


THE FOESAKEN 


9 


A swallow flew into the house of God, circled 
wildly about, grazing the edge of the cruciflx near 
the pulpit. She followed its fluttering flight and 
saw it gain freedom through a small square opening 
in a window showing Christ healing a leper. 

“Your carriage is ready, Mrs. Vanderlyn,” an 
usher called from the door. She stopped to gather 
up the train of her gown, dislodging the petals of a 
rose at her waist. They fell to the red carpet run- 
ning out to the curb. The brilliant June sun daz- 
zled on the polished top of the waiting brougham. 

A dark-robed priest stepped toward the man at 
the door frame. 

“A glorious summer day. Doctor,” she heard him 
say. 

“Yes,” came the answer. “June was always a 
good month for marrying.” A deep-toned laugh 
followed. 

“Ever a materialist. Doctor,” the priest said. 
“Some day you will come to us, as, indeed, we come 
to you now, to be healed and rested. As a servant 
of God I hope I may greet you.” 


CHAPTEE II. 


Mrs. Vanderlyn sat in the nursery of her well 
appointed home overlooking the park. The nurse 
held her girl baby, now a trifle over two years of 
age. The child rebelled against the administration 
of a gruel-like mess which the nurse was trying to 
feed it with a heavy, much embossed, silver spoon. 

“Take it for mother, dear,” Mrs. Vanderlyn 
pleaded. 

The child threw back its misshapen head, showing 
protruding bumps on the forehead, slightly invaded 
by thin, Avhitish hair, through which yellowish 
crusts were visible. 

“I do not think the child hears you, madam,” the 
nurse said. “I have noticed for some time that I 
had to speak to her several times to make her under- 
stand. I am afraid something is wrong with her 
ears.” 

“There ig always something wrong with her,” the 
mother .said peevishly. “It certainly is not for lack 
of care.” 

The nurse at last induced the child to open its 
mouth. The gums Avere pale, croAvned Avith yelloAA', 
notched irregular teeth. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn pulled the lace -trimmed shirt 
over the child’s undeveloped limbs. Tears rose to 


THE FOKSAKEN 


11 


her eyes. She stepped to the window, drawing 
aside the curtain. The foliage was taking on au- 
tumnal coloring. Quite a number of leaves lay on 
the grass. A procession of motors and glittering 
equipages rolled silently along the smooth macadam 
of the drive. In the foreground near the park wall 
a boy and girl, pair of brats, about the age of her 
Martha, were fighting like demons over the posses- 
sion of a tennis ball. The boy, a sturdy cub, was 
coming out victoriously. He bad the fair-hai]*ed 
girl by the back of the neck and was pummelling her 
in the rear with a persistence worthy of the cause. 
A bustling nurse hurried up and pulled the young 
rascal away. He refused to go and shrieked out 
vehement protest. The nurse picked him up and 
the young devil spat in her face. She took him to 
a bench and wiped her face. The next moment the 
cub had his arms around her neck and kissed her 
round face with his full blood-red lips. A tear fell 
to Mrs. Vanderlyn’s gown, and another trembled 
on the edge of her eyelid. 

She had grown stouter in the three years of her 
married life. The couple had traveled in Europe 
for six months immediately folloAving their mar- 
riage, returning to New York when the probability 
of the arrival of an offspring had become manifest. 
When her child was born she did not have any of 
nature’s nourishment for it. This had not been a 
source of great annoyance to her, however, for many 


12 


THE FORSAKEN 


reasons, not the least of which was the reservation 
that musicals and teas and luncheons and matinees 
would not be interfered with. The child did not 
thrive. Whispered consultations were held by se- 
rious looking specialists and the food was changed 
constantly. In the end an able-looking man, who 
seemed to have time to walk to his cases, came in. 
He gave the butler his cane and hat, and ordered 
him to show him the way to the patient. The butler 
made a mild protest on the ground that he wished 
to announce the gentleman. 

Whatever leisure the man seemed to allow him- 
self as regards arriving, he did not extend to his 
method of action after he had arrived. “Get out of 
the way,” he said, “I have no time for that sort of 
thing,” and he mounted the stairs to the nursery 
without further formality. Mrs. Vanderlyn asked 
him timidly for his opinion. 

“I told your physician what I thought. He is a 
sort of human phonograph for me in this instance. 
I am not going over it again.” 

“Brute,” Mrs. Vanderlyn muttered. 

After that the child was rubbed with a grayish 
blue salve and improved until the laundress ob- 
jected to the stained undergarments. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn continued to watch the boy who 
had beaten his little playmate. He had climbed 
down from the bench and was rolling the ball he 
had so strenuously worked for toward the very 


THE FOESAKEN 


13 


girl he had maltreated. The girl was serenely hap- 
py, emitting a shrill happy laugh every time her 
young chastiser successfully rolled the ball between 
her round bare legs. 

“Brougham at the door,” came the butler’s voice 
from the hall. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn hastened to her room and pow- 
dered her face. The added whiteness made the eye- 
brows still less visible. She took a small tooth- 
brush from a tin box in the upper drawer of her 
dresser, rubbed it over a dark colored substance in 
one of its compartments and after moistening the 
darkened bristles with the end of her tongue, ap- 
plied the brush to her eyebroAvs. Fine particles 
of powder fell to her gown, which she dusted oflf 
Avith a silver-handled brush. Then she lifted the 
cover of a jar and took up some of its pasty con- 
tents on the end of the ring-finger and placed it to 
her lip. A small portion touched her tongue. It 
had a metallic taste, as though she had stuck a brass 
key in her mouth. She took the jar to the window. 

“How in the world did I get this?” she muttered. 
She read the label. 

“For Mr. Vanderlyn,” it read. “Rub into skin 
as directed. Dr. Manteufel." 

She rang the bell. Her maid came in. “Marie, 
how did this get into my drawer?” she asked, hand- 
ing the maid the cover of the jar. 

The maid studied the cover for a while. “Oh! I 


14 


THE FORSAKEN 


remember,” she said, presently. “I found it on the 
floor in Mr. Vanderlyn’s dressing-room — I thonght 
it was your rouge pot. I hope I have done nothing 
wrong.” 

“No, certainly not. You may go.” The maid 
left the room. Mrs. Vanderlyn continued to scruti- 
nize the little jar. “Strange,” she muttered, “it 
looks familiar, this bluish-gray paste. Why, yes, 
it’s the same as we used on Martha.” 

She seated herself at the windoAv. What conld it 
mean? Her husband had never mentioned the need 
of medical attention. He was not particnlarly ro- 
bust, but this had not invoh^ed any great hardship 
to her, as she herself was not given to indulgences 
requiring great endurance. She looked again at 
the label on the cover. 

“Dr. Manteufel? Why, that is the man who 
looked at me so strangely that day in chnrch.” 

Every detail of the occurrence flashed through 
her mind. She rose and walked rapidly to the tele- 
phone in the hall, and after consulting the index, 
gave central Dr. Manteufel’s number. 

A female voice answered. “If you will give me 
your name I will see if the doctor is in,” the voice 
said.. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn hesitated a moment. A plan for- 
mulatM itself in her mind. “Tell him Mrs. Baxter 
wishes to speak to him. The matter is quite 
important.” 


THE FORSAKEN 


15 


A moment later the Doctor’s full, strong voice 
asked, “AVhat can I do for you, madam?” 

“I wish to consult you regarding my child. AA^hen 
can I see you?” 

“AVell, it’s half after 12 o’clock now and I am not 
in after one. Is the condition serious? You know 
I do not do any general practice.” 

“I just Avished your opinion. Doctor. If I come 
at once will you see me?” 

“Y’es, if you Avill hasten.” 

“My brougham is at the door. I Avill come at 
once.” She hung up the receiver and rang for her 
maid. “Tell Lucy to dress the baby at once and 
let her get ready too. I am going to take the baby 
with me. Tell her to hurry.” 

She hastily put on her hat and veil and slipped 
into a wrap. The jar still stood on the edge of the 
dresser. She wrapped it in a handkerchief and 
slipped it into her pocket, placed the cover back 
into the drawer, closed and locked it. She started 
for the door, but suddenly stopped, opened a drawer 
in the dresser, extracted a thick brown veil and put 
it on over the thin bespeckled one she already wore. 
A glance in the mirror told her that her features 
were quite devoid of distinguishing characters. 

AVhen she arrived at the Doctor’s house, he was 
just showing out a pale man who looked as though 
he had been informed of something unpleasant. 

“Gome in. Madam,” the Doctor said. He led the 


16 


THE FORSAKEN 


way into a large well-lighted consulting room. The 
chamber was simply furnished and devoid of nickel 
plated awe-inspiring paraphernalia common to the 
workshop of the physician. A door which stood 
slightly ajar allowed a glimpse of white enameled 
table and glass cabinets in the room beyond. At 
that moment a woman in a white and blue striped 
gown closed the door. Mrs. Vanderlyn seated her- 
self in a chair with her back to the light. 

The Doctor ordered the nurse to seat herself Avith 
the child on her lap facing the window. He took 
a card from a little cabinet to the right of his desk, 
and as he asked a question he made a note on the 
card. After finishing his interrogations tbe Doctor 
proceeded to examine the child. His examination 
was not prolonged. He ordered the nurse to take 
the child into the waiting-room and turning to the 
visitor said: ‘‘You say you are not the mother of 
this child, Mrs. Baxter. Tell me, do you know the 
mother?” 

“I did. Doctor, but she is dead and the father is 
dead also. I adopted her when she was only three 
months old.” The doctor walked to the window and 
looked thoughtfully out on the cement-covered space 
beyond. 

“You have done a rather foolish thing, madam,” 
he began. “However, that is not the point. The 
child has a rather serious constitutional alfliction, 
one which will require great care and patience to 


THE FOKSAKEN 


17 


relieve. Indeed, I cannot promise you complete 
recovery, though it is quite possible.” 

“One of the doctors whom I saw prescribed this 
salve,” Mrs. Vanderlyn said. “It helped her a 
little.” 

Dr. Manteufel took the jar. “Yes,” he answered 
with a smile, “that is what is generally used in this 
class of cases.” 

“Does this affliction come from the parents? 
mother or father,” she asked next. 

“From either one,” was the answer. “It is a sin- 
gular thing that a child may inherit it from either, 
though the afflicted parent might not convey the 
disease to the other. That is, an afflicted father 
would have an afflicted child and yet the mother 
herself might not be infected.” 

“Does this mean then that the mother could have 
a healthy child?” 

“Yes, by a second husband, but she would proba- 
bly never have a healthy child from the same man 
who' blessed her with the afflicted one. However, 
this need not be considered in this instance.” 

“No, of course not. Thank you very much. What 
is your fee?” She rose to go. She felt dizzy and 
faint despite her resolution to carrj^ out the farce. 

The Doctor held the door for her to pass out. She 
paused for a moment on the threshold to gather her- 
self together. The Doctor had already reached his 
arm out, anticipating her next step. She felt the 


18 


THE P^ORSAKEN 


pressure of his arm against her waist as she leaned 
slightly backward. It felt strong and good. As 
she turned toward him, muttering an apology, her 
eyes fell on a picture near the window over the 
chair Avhich she had occupied during the interview. 
It showed a dark-haired Avoman bending over a 
chubby child. A large tear Avas floAving doAvn the 
cheek. She remembered having seen it in Europe. 
The inscription flashed through her mind. 

“Deine SAvele aber wird ein Schwerdt Durch- 
ringen.” A faint sob escaped her lips. 

“Sit here on this big chair for a moment,” the 
Doctor said gently. “You must not give up, there 
is much to be done for your charge.” 

She sank down in a big velour chair and leaned 
her head backAvard. The light fell on her veiled face 
and she turned it away from the AvindoAv. 

A childish voice came from the floor above. “Are 
you there, daddy?” it called. “Hedwig says lunch 
is ready.” 

The voice was coming nearer. The next moment 
a fair-haired boy stood at the door of the consulting 
room. He wore a Russian blouse, black stockings 
and low-cut shoes. The light from the window fell 
strongly on his sturdy flgure. Mrs. Vanderlyn no- 
ticed the square shoulders, the well-poised head, the 
clear blue eyes. The lad drew back when he saw 
her. 

“You must not rush in like this, son,” the Doctor 


THE FOESAXEN 


19 


said. ^Teople do not like to be disturbed when they 
come to see me.’’ 

The boy bowed slightly and made to withdraw 
without answering. 

^^Oh! do not send him away,” Mrs. Vanderlyn 
pleaded. ^^May I speak to him a moment?” 

The Doctor seated himself at his desk and mo- 
tioned the lad to enter. The boy stepped up to the 
visitor, drawing his eyebrows together in an effort 
to penetrate the thick veil. 

‘AVhat is your name, my handsome little friend?” 
she asked him with a little catch in her voice. 

^^My name is Friederich Manteufel. Dad calls me 
Fritz. I am six years old. Why are you crying? 
Dad is a great surgeon. He will make you well. 
You must not cry.” He advanGed to her knee and 
placed a slendier strong hand on her arm. 

She brushed a stray lock of hair from his smooth 
childish forehead, and let the ends of her gloved 
fingers rest for a moment against the round cheek. 

am not crying for myself, I am sorry for a little 
sick girl.” 

^^Then you must see Doctor Holder. He is a 
baby doctor. Dad called him in when I was sick. 
I was not very sick. Dr. Holder makes babies well. 
He has a white, funny old beard and I pulled it 
when he came the second time. He took me up and 
spanked my butty; but not very hard. It did not 
hurt a bit. Daddy says that is what cured me.” 


20 


THE FOKSAKEN 


The nurse came to the door with little Martha in 
her arms. The child began to whimper feebly. 

“Take her out to the brougham, Lucy,” Mrs. 
Vanderlyn ordered. “I will be out presently.” 

“Oh ! let me see the baby,” the lad cried. “Is she 
sick?” 

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Vanderlyn answered. “You 
must not disturb her.” 

The nurse passed on. The Doctor rose from his 
chair. “Oome, Fritz,” he said, “you have ket)t the 
lady long enough.” 

Mrs. Vanderlyn rose also. “Thank you very 
much. Doctor. You have a fine boy. His mother 
mu.st be very proud of him.” Her voice had steadied 
and she stepped quite firmly toward the door. 

“His mother is dead, madam,” the Doctor an- 
swered. 

“I am so sorry. Pardon me, I did not know.” 

“Of course not; don’t speak of it. You have ray 
best wishes for your ward.” He showed her out of 
the door, and as she descended the steps she heard 
a loud high-pitched peal of laughter and hurried 
footsteps pattering down the hall. 


CHAPTEE III. 


“Drive to St. Agnes church,” she ordered the 
coachman. 

Her min'd was still confu^d. She let down the 
window and the brisk October air seemed to clear 
away the fog. She reflected : That is what that 
rheumatism meant — 'the visit to the baths at France 
and Germany, the prematurely falling hair, the 
obstinate persistence of a bruise. She recalled how 
at Nice her husband had bumped his shin against 
the step of a railroad car and that it took two 
months for the contusion to heal. Martha emitted 
a peevish cry. 

“The draft from the window is a little strong,” 
the nurse said. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn pulled up the window but she 
became faint again. It seemed as though her child 
polluted the air. She lowered the window a few 
inches and held the strap in her hand. 

“I am cold, Mamma!” the child cried, irritably. 

A wave of pity came over her. She closed the 
window and took the child on her lap. This poor 
innocent piece of clay so unjustly cursed. The 
brougham pulled up before the church. 

“I am going in with Martha,” she said. “Wait 
for me.” She mounted the stone steps leading into 


THE EOKSAKEK 


22 

the house of God. The empty pews stretched out 
before her. There was the pulpit, the altar, the 
deep crimson carpet, the crucifix, and the familiar 
picture showing Jesus Christ at the last meal. 

The child in her arms had; become still. It lay 
now staring vacantly at the vaulted ceiling with 
its angels fioating in the midst of white clouds on 
an azure background. She walked softly toward the 
altar. A patch of bright sunlight half-way up the 
hall caused her to look up. A square space in the 
stainedi glass window depicting Christ healing a 
leper was open just as it was that day, her wedding 
daj'. She turned to the window holding the child 
toward it. Instinctively the intonation of prayer 
and mode of expression of the testament came from 
her. 

“See, Lord J esus, my afflicted child. Give me some 
sign that she may be healed. In this surely I have 
not sinned. Have mercy, O Saviour, and touch with 
Thy healing hand, this, my own flesh and blood, that 
it might cast off this affliction.” 

The eyes in the bearded face, with its transparent 
features, gazed mutely into space as they had since 
the window was put in. The October wind blew in 
through the sqiiare opening. It felt cold, and she 
drew the wrap around the child’s wasted body and 
advanced to the altar. 

“O Mother Marj^, thou who hast sufferedi with 
thy Son, be thou, merciful, to me. Thou who hast 


THE FORSAKEN 


23 


known the pain of begetting the only Son of God, 
look down and help me. Oh, thou all-wise God, 
hear my prayer, and let my child be healed.” 

How still it was; no sound, no guiding voice, no 
helping hand. She laid the still silent child on the 
step leading to the altar. The ritual came into her 
mind. Yes, that w'as it. She had forgotten the 
way to ask for help. It came into her mind then. 

“O Holy Mary, mother of God, who wert present 
beneath the cross at the death of thy blessed son 
Jesus, obtain for me the grace of a happy death, 
Ava Maria” — she stopped, the next portion of the 
prayer had escaped her memory. 

She turned to the nearest pew and took up a 
testament and found the place at once, “O Glorious 
St. Michael, prince of the Heavenly host, intercede 
for me at the hour of my death.” She closed the 
book. “Yes, of course,” she muttered, “that is the 
way out of it all.” She closed her eyes. “To be 
tempted like this in the very presence of God.” 
She took up the child and stole softly toward the 
door. The light streamed through the red gown 
of the mother Mary at the foot of the cross and fell 
on the child’s pinched face. A yellowish patch on 
the side of the forehead took on a pinkish hue. 
Her mind went back three years. She saw again 
the tall man leaning against the door frame and 
followed again his gaze to her husband’s face. 
AVith her mind’s eye she beheld again the copper 


24 


THE FORSAKEN 


tinted patch enhanced by the reddish light. She 
drew the child’s veil over its face, and carried it 
out to her glittering brougham. 

When she reached her home she sent the child to 
the nursery and retired to her room. “I don’t 
want any lunch,” she told the maid who helped her 
off with her wrap and hat. The maid disappeared. 
She went to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. 
The face was quite round, though small, the nose 
straight, the hair fine but fell in soft curves over the 
forehead and ears. The eyes were set widely apart, 
of a pale blue surrounded with light eyelashes. 
The mouth was small with thin lips, the teeth good, 
though two of them were filled with gold. She ran 
her hand down over the bust. It was quite juve- 
nile, yet firm and well rounded. The hips had filled 
out considerable in the last two year’s. Her dress- 
maker had felt justified in omitting certain arts in 
this regard for some time. 

She sat down wearily in the chair near the 
window. 

“I wish God would take her,” she thought. The 
next moment she blamed herself for being a cow- 
ard. “Yet it can’t be that the error of a parent 
should be fixed upon an innocent child.” The vis- 
ion of her husband came into her mind; she shud- 
dered. “To think I never knew. Better to have 
strangled her at birth.” She rose and paced the 
floor. Each moment brought a varying emotion. 


THE FORSAKEN 


25 


At one moment violently rebellious at her fate, 
the next overwhelmed with pity for the child. One 
minute filled with loathing for her husband, the 
next pitying him because of his affliction. 

The turbulent mental state exhausted her after 
a time. She ultimately sank down on a divan and 
buried her face in the cushions. The October day 
was drawing to a close. Shadows deepened in the 
room. The maid came in. She ordered her to leave 
her in darkness. With the setting sun her courage 
failed. She began to cry. 

She heard her husband slowly ascend the stairs. 
He groped for some time before he found the latch 
and entered. She h^rd him stumble over a has- 
sock and fall to his knees. A muttered oath 
escaped him. When he rose he groped incoordi- 
nately about the room, knocking against the furni- 
ture. She remained still. At last he found the 
switch and closed the electric current, fiooding the 
room with light. 

“Thank God,” he muttered. “This accursed in- 
ability to find my way in the dark is getting worse 
and worse. I wonder what it means. When I cross 
the street I fear I’ll be run over.” He stood for a 
moment facing the wall, getting accustomed to the 
light. As he turned he saw his wife lying on the 
sofa. He thought her asleep and touched her 
lightly on the shoulder. She raised her tear-stained 
face. 


THE FORSAKEN 


2f> 


“What in the name of Heaven is the matter? 
What are you crying about?” he asked anxiously. 
“Is Martha worse?” 

She looked into his thin pale face, at the bald 
head, the hairless eyelids with their red borders. 
Revolt rose in her. 

“I saw Dr. Mantenfel today. I deceived him. 
He did not know who I am. I have found out all. 
I want to go away, far away, somewhere, any- 
where. To some place where my child will find help. 
I will go to Lourdles, to the Holj^ City. I will find 
help from God.” She buried her face in the heavily 
embroidered cushions. Vanderlyn looked like a 
man Avho had been shot in. the abdomen. He sat 
heavily down in a big chair. His lips were pale. 
“Dr. Mantenfel told me I could not communicate 
the disease,” he began weakly. “I did not believe 
it was hereditary. Not until you were pregnant 
did I know. Then it was too late.” 

“Don’t add a lie to your fault, Harry,” she said. 
“You must have known.” 

He broke down completely. “I thought perhaps 
I would escape. I loved you so. I became a Cath- 
olic for you. I did everjdhing you wanted. When 
you were pregnant I prayed to God that all would 
be well. When Martha was born she seemed like 
other children. It can’t be that. It’s something 
else.” His shoulders heaved with heart - tearing 


THE FORSAKEN 


27 


sobs. Bitter tears rolled down his prematurely 
wrinkled cheeks. 

‘^It is nothing else but that, as Dr. Manteufel 
told me. May God: forgive you. See thu lives you 
have ruined. I am only twenty -six and I must go 
on knowing that I cannot bear a healthy child 
until the end.’’ 

‘^Only my end,” he interposed bitterly. 

iVgain a surge of pity for him swept over her. 
She came to his side. ‘‘Do not ask me to forgive 
it all just yet, Harrj^ ; give me time.” Her training, 
her belief dominated her for the moment. “God 
will show us the way. We must face it as it is.” 
She left the room with, a bowed head. 

Vanderlyn remained seated, crouched in his 
chair. Shooting pains darted down his legs. He 
twitched with pain. The bright light hurt his 
eyes. He rose painfully and turned off half the 
bulbs attached to the gilt chandelier. As he 
reached for the flat switches his Angers grasped the 
rods beside them and his intent was only accom- 
plished after repeated efforts. As he walkedi back 
to the chair he rested his hands on its arms, low- 
ered his body carefully and suddenly flopped into 
the seat. The entire tragedy passed through his 
mind — ^the hilarious wine-stimulated night at the 
French Ball with his club-mates, a dainty, be- 
painted girl with golden-hued hair and violet 


28 


THE FORSAKEN 


squinting eyes, belated meal at “Jacques,” the 
finale in the bemirrored fiat and breakfast at the 
inn in Westchester ; the maid not quite so alluring, 
himself encased in a fur overcoat which concealed, 
in a perfunctory Avay, the disheveled evening 
clothes. 

Later, the shock of the daAvning belief that some- 
thing was wrong, the interview with the eminent 
specialist, Manteufel’s grave face, his measured 
words, the hopeful outlook with its skillfully inter- 
spersed qualifications. He was twenty-five then, 
six years ago. Two years later he met Agnes Cos- 
tello and fell in love with her. What a coward he 
hadl been. The terrible months following his wife’s 
pregnancy passed in revieAv like the memory of a 
hideous nightmare. Well, it was all over now. 

^ She would divorce him. No, she couldn’t do that; 
there was her religion. Yet she would be free soon 
— ^those pains, the inability to find his way in the 
dark, his intolerance for light; surely these meant 
some grave condition. There was a quicker way 
than that. He crouched in his chair. “No, no, not 
that. I am too great a coward for that,” he mut- 
tered. 

He saw himself stretched out cold and lifeless. 
Agnes could marry again. He sat up suddenly. 
“No, by God, no other man will have her!” A vio- 
lent darting pain assailed him. He sank back with 
a stifled groan. He rose slowly and entered his 


THE FORSAKEN 


29 


ilressiug-rooin, opened the cupboard Avith a key and 
extracted a small vial covered with a red label. 
He spilled two of the tiny tablets on the palm of 
his hand, opened his mouth and threw them back 
into his throat. 

know I should not resort to this, but the pain 
and anguish is more than I can bear.” In a few 
minutes he became droAvsy, his eyelids sank over 
the dull eyes, the opiate lulled the pain. In another 
few minutes he was asleep. His A^alet came and put 
him to bed. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Father Bovaied had had an exceedingly pala- 
table luncheon. Hig face was flushed and a slight 
coating of grease covered his engorged purple chin. 
The Burgundy sent in by an admiring parishioner 
had made him drowsy and he nodded sleepily in 
his chair. His fat, sleek housekeeper came in with 
a card on a black Japanese tray. The tray was 
devoid of ornamentation and looked a part of the 
simplicity which the rectory strictly maintained. 
Father Bovaird sighed and groped for his glasses. 
He found them at last in the pocket of his soup- 
bespattered cassock. 

The Lenten duties had been very exacting and 
again his parish had many poor in it. He walked 
to the window, holding the card in his handi. The 
warm April sun shone on his bald head as he 
bowed over the card. “Mrs. Harry Vanderlyn,” 
he read. “Ah, yes, she was Agnes Costello,” he 
mused, puckering up the purple lips. “Her hus- 
band became a convert. These sudden twists to- 
ward the faith give us lots of trouble.” He turned 
to the housekeeper. “Show the lady in, Josephine.” 

Josephine pulled down the shade, wiped some 
cigar ashes from the top of the Rector’s desk with 
her apron, pushed under the desk a cuspidor which 


THE FORSAKEN 


31 


gave evidence of the obstinancy of her employer’s 
catarrh, and went out. 

A moment later Mrs. Vanderlyn entered. She 
looked pale and tired. Her naturally slender figure 
had become gaunt, and her shoulders looked as 
though they wanted to tickle the lobes of her ears. 

“Be seated, my child,” the priest said. “What 
can I do for you? You look distressed. It is well 
for you to come to the servant of God. We are 
ever ready to aid the suffering.” He folded his 
puffy handls over the round protruding abdomen. 

“I come to you. Father, on a matter which is 
exceedingly embarrassing to me,” she began hesi- 
tatingly. “You will remember I married Harry 
Vanderlyn three years ago. Since then I have had 
a daughter. You know all this — you christened the 
baby.” 

“Yes, my child, I remember it very well,” the 
priest answered. 

She told the priest the foetid tale. He sat listen- 
ing with his fat hands folded across the rotund 
abdomen. “You are an unfortunate child,” ihe 
began, when the woman ceased speaking. 

She began to cry softly. “I, too, want to know 
the blessing of motherhood!. I too want to hold 
my naked children in my arms.” For a moment 
a natural female impulse stimulated her to a dra- 
matic method of expression. She rose and went 
to the window. “See the trees are budding,” she 


32 


THE FOESAKEN 


went on, pointing out of the window. “Soon the 
lilacs bloom, the leaves sprout, the fields become 
green. Fertile nature cloaks the earth. Am I to 
stand by and never know it as it should be ? 
There must be a way. Father.” She turned to the 
priest and held out her slender bony hands. 

“You are young,” the priest answered quietly. 
“You must not give up hope. Trust in the Lord.” 

“My husband will live on until I am too old,” 
she answered, wiping her eyes with care. “I know 
it is terrible to speak of that, yet I too have a place 
in life. I will not go to the end like this. God 
took my Martha two months ago. I had prayed 
that He might take her many, many times. Now 
I am alone with this afflicted man. I see no hope 
anywhere. The Church must have some provision 
for this.” 

“You mean divorce?” the priest asked, with dark- 
ening face. 

“Yes; divorce, liberty, the right to be a woman.” 

“That is impossible, my child,” the priest said, 
rising from his chair. “That question is as old as 
the Catholic ritual. It will never be different. 
These things are decided by wiser heads than ours.” 
He talked rapidly, as though he were repeating 
words mechanically. 

The woman sank helplesffly into a chair. “T 
might have known,” she moaned. 

“God will show you the way, child,” the priest 


THE FORSAKEN 


33 


said more gently. “The way of the Lord is inscru- 
table. We follow blindly, yet always to a happy 
goal. Carry your cross — the bliss of the happy end 
will be the greater for it.” 

“Very well. If I commit an error which con- 
demns me with myself, the Church will be respon- 
sible for it. I will not go on like this.” She 
pulled her veil down and hurriedly entered her 
brougham. 

The priest shrugged his shoulders. “She will 
get over that. Perhaps it is hard, yet it is for the 
best.” And he turned to the letters lying in a 
heap at the corner of his desk. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn drove up Fifth Avenue. There 
was a bite of the receding winter in the air, though 
the sun was warm, and already the attire of men 
and women was less closely buttoned;. Here and 
there a light colored wrap appeared, and some of 
the men pedestrians carried their coats on their 
arms. At Forty-second street the brougham halted 
at the end of a long file of carriages and motors 
awaiting the signal from the traffic policeman be- 
fore crossing that busy thoroughfare. 

The vine grown reservoir on the left showed a 
slight green shimmer of budding leaves. She 
watched the people pass rapidly by. In a moment 
she caught a glimpse of Dr. Manteufel’s tall figure 
coming down the sidewalk. He towered quite over 
the heads of the others. As he drew nearer she 


34 


THE FOESAKEN 


noted the self reliant carriage, the square shoul- 
ders, the easy gait. 

He wore a gray suit, tan gloves, and a stiff hat. 
He walked easily and without moving his right 
arm, though the left swung slightly from the shoul- 
der. She remembered that he had been in the army 
for a time and fancied him walking at the head of 
his regiment. He was quite opposite her when he 
stopped, removed his hat, and stood bareheaded 
as he shook hands with a rather well - govmed 
woman who was manifestly glad to see him. She 
saAV a quick, bright smile play over his features for 
an instant and then become intent. Evidently the 
woman was asking him something which required 
a considered answ’er. Just at that moment a 
rather sharp gust of wind blew the hair at his tem- 
ples into disorder and the wisps stood up on end. 
Mrs. Vanderlyn leaned forward in her seat, “He 
looks as if he had two tiny horns,” she mutteredi. 
The doctor replaced his hat, bowed Avith some grace 
to the woman, brushed his lips with her gloved 
hand and Avalked on. 

She dreAv her Avrap around her thin shoulders 
and looked at herself in the little mirror in the 
brougham frame. That night she ate as heartily 
as she cotild andl Went to bed early. 


CHAPTEE V. 


Harry Vanderlyn rolled his invalid chair far- 
ther back from the rail running around the veran- 
da. A patch of sunlight had irritated his eyes. 
He reached unsteadily to a little round table and 
shakily lifted a pair of blue glasses which he placed 
before his eyes. 

The end of the' June day lay heavily on the preg- 
nant earth with its verdant cloak. The sun glis- 
tened on the smooth water of the Sound of which 
a considerable expanse was visible through the 
trees. He removed the blue glasses with a gesture 
of impatience. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn stepped out through the French 
window. 

“Is that you, Agnes?” he asked. 

“Yes, Harry ; what is it? 

“Is that the Fall river boat out there, or is it 
one of those Maine steamers?” He pointed out 
over the water. 

A four-masted schooner was sailing quite close 
to. the shore, its top sails taut in the summer wind. 

“You have been looking too long at the shimmer- 
ing wuter,” she answered, “that is a sailer.” 

“So it is; I see it now.” He passed his thin hairy 
hand over his eyes. 


30 


THE FOESAKEN 


Mrs. Vanderlyn stood resting one hand on the 
back of the rolling chair. Three months had worked 
a miracle. Her figure had filled out and as though 
touched by a magic hand the face had taken on 
bloom. Her light brown hair was artfully arranged 
and the eyebrows and eyelashes, aided by cosmetic 
art, made her pale blue eyes deeper in hue. She 
Avore a light blue gown cut slightly low at the neck 
and fashioned close to the hips. The sleeves were 
short and trimmed with a fiuffy lace which hung 
loosely over the white forearm. A gold band encir- 
cled the wrist and the slender fingers were quite 
devoid of ornamentation. 

She raised her hand to her face and pushed back 
a wisp of hair, revealing a round, if somewhat slen- 
der, arm. 

Vanderlyn had not walked for months. The af- 
fliction which had become manifest in the Spring 
had gone relentlessly on, progressively involving 
muscle after muscle until now he was a confirmed 
paralytic, being pushed about in a chair, though 
his hands and arms were still capable of certain 
incoordinate feeble efforts. 

Early in May the couple had come to Larchmont 
to the old Vanderlyn home, with its big hall, great 
verandas, roomy old library and darkly furnished 
dining-room. Here the coaple lived. Vanicterlyn 
accepted the sacrifice on the part of his wife to his 


THE FORSAKEN 


37 


affliction involved in a life of isolation, spending 
each day in his chair, driving over the smooth 
roads of Westchester county in a motor, and spend- 
ing the nights, propped up in bed, with an attend- 
ant to read him to sleep or administer the inevitable 
opiate which lulled his pain in the end. 

The valve motion of a motor clicked near by and 
in another instant a big red car slipped down the 
gravel drive toward the gate. 

“What time is it?” Vanderlyn asked. 

“Six o’clock,” Mrs. Vanderlyn answered. “Con- 
nell is going to the station to meet Dr. Manteufel. 
He is coming to see you. I have told Yama to have 
dinner at seven.” 

“He comes quite often of late. I suppose he does 
the best he can, yet I do not improve much.” 

“You must be patient, Harry. Give yourself 
time. It will all come out right.” 

Vanderlyn did not answer at once. They both 
stared out over the water. A faint breeze stirred 
the leaves in the overhanging trees. A robin 
hopped over the lawn. The spray from the foun- 
tain in front of the house broke the rays of the 
slanting sun into the colors of the prism. 

“I would give the rest of my life for thirty days 
of Manteufel’s physique,” Vanderlyn said, sud- 
denly. He raised himself on the arms of his chair 
but fell back again impotently into the cushions. 


38 


THE FOESAKEN 


The butler’s queer Mongolian intonation came 
from the hall. “Dinner for three, did madam say?” 
he asked. 

“No, two,” Vanderlyn said, with a note of bitter- 
ness in his voice. “I am not going to display my 
inability to handle the table silver tonight.” 

Mrs. Vanderlyn seated herself in a low wicker 
chair. Vanderlyn continued to look vacantly into 
space. At times he passed his hands over his eyes 
with an incoordinate, inaccurate gesture common 
to his affliction, then shook his head and relapsed 
into inactivity. 

Presently the motor drew up at the steps lead- 
ing to the house. 

Manteufel dismounted. “ I want to get the 
10.23 back,” he said to the chauffeur. The man 
nodded his head, threw the gear lever back to sec- 
ond speed and buzzed toward the barn. 

Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel carried his forty 
years of life with the ease with which, he carried 
everything else. He mounted the steps to the ve- 
randa with his hat in his hand. The Jnne sun 
made a shimmer on the dome of his well-posed head, 
filtered through the grey patch over the temple, and 
enhanced the somewhat weather beaten appearance 
of the neck near the jaw. 

“It has been a very hot day in town,” he said as 
he sat down beside his patient. “How are you to- 


THE POESAKEN 


39 


day, Mr. Vanderlyn?” he asked, turning away from 
his hostess whom he had greeted with a bow'. 

“Not much better. Doctor. I fancy you scientific 
fellows have a lot to learn.” 

“Yes, that’s true. However, we do the best we 
can. We are, of course, dealing with that mystery 
called life. We have not the impudence of the 
clergy to believe that we have solved it. Indeed, 
the farther we delve the less arrogant we become 
in this regard.” 

He went over his patient’s condition rapidly, 
gave some directions and turned to his hostess. 
He acted like a man who allotted a certain time 
and energy to a problem, and then dismissed it to 
take up something else. 

She had watched him closely as he w^ent through 
his work — ^the slender, strong hands with their 
automatic accuracy, the intent face, yet impassive 
as regards impressions registered, the slight lateral 
inclination of the head as though listening for a 
distant soundi. 

“Larchmont is doing you good, Mrs. Vanderlyn,” 
he said with a sudden change of intonation which 
startled her. She looked down at her lap as his 
gaze remained steadily on her face. A faint flush 
spread over her cheeks and neck. 

Yama brought three slender glasses of sherry on 
a small silver tray with a lace dpily. He held the 


40 


THE FORSAKEN 


tray toward Manteufel. “Serve madam first,” 
Manteufel said, with enough sharpness in his voice 
to disturb for a moment the Mongolian tempera- 
ment into spilling a little of the sherry on the tray. 

Vanderlyn continued to stare toward the water. 
“Take your sherry, "Harry,” Mrs. Vanderlyn said. 

Vanderlyn reached to the side opposite from 
where Yama stood. He did. not turn his head. 
“Never mind,” he said, “I do not feel particularly 
fit. I guess I’ll retire. You will excuse me. Doc- 
tor,” he added, still keeping his eyes towards the 
water where the evening breeze was making small 
islands of ripples on the smooth tide. 

“Certainly,” Manteufel answered. He rose as 
the butler Avheeled the chair into the house and 
watched the invalid disappear into the shadow 
of the great hall with its fireplace and carved 
wooden ceiling. 

“Harry gets peevish at times. Doctor,” Mrs. Van- 
derlyn said as Manteufel sat down. “It is a great 
misfortune, yet I fancy he would be better off if he 
did not let the thing ovenvhelm him so much.” 

Manteufel did not answer. He drew a fiat metal 
cigarette case from his hip pocket, extracted a 
cigarette and looked toward the little table. Mrs. 
Vanderlyn rose quickly, struck a match and held 
it while he ignited the tiny roll. As he leaned 
back she blew her breath softly at the fiame as 


THE FORSAKEN 


41 


though reluctant to see it die. Indeed, she tarried 
a moment too long and the flame scorched the end 
of her Anger, yet she blew the match out without 
dropping it and placed it carefully on the ash- 
tray at her side. 

“We have twenty minutes before dinner,” she 
said. “The tide is up and those ugly marshes are 
quite submerged. Shall we walk down to the 
water edge?” 

“I will be very glad to.” 

They walked down over the lawn, under some 
stately oaks and on to the shadow of a mighty wil- 
low which grew hard by the water’s edge, its 
drooping branches barely above the tide. 

“Here, sit on this bench,” she said, indicating an 
ornamental settee which leaned against the trunk 
of the willow. He seated himself facing the water 
and Mrs. Vanderlyn sat down on a rock which 
overhung the bank, in disregard of her gown, and 
crossed her legs, revealing the ed'ge of lacy lingerie, 
which made a pleasing contrast to transparent 
stockings and dainty patent leather pumps. 

Manteufel watched her with a complacency born 
of metropolitan life, and let the smoke from his 
cigarette float lazily upward and disappear into 
the willow leaves. 

“Your life is isolated here, Mrs. Vanderlyn,” he 
began after a time. 


42 


THE FOKSAKEN 


She nodded her head. 

“I have often thought of how brave you have 
been,” he went on. “The man’s affliction is terri- 
ble — ^terrible even to us who are accustomed to for- 
mulate our impressions from different standards 
than do the laity.” 

“I am not always complacent,” she answered 
quickly. “At times a violent rebellion rises within 
me. At those times I would do almost anything to 
revenge myself on Fate.” She rose and walked to 
Manteufel’s side, placing her hand on the back of 
the settee near his shoulder. 

He looked up at her with an added interest in 
his gray calm eyes. Her bosom heaved and an in- 
tent look crept into her eyes, now quite deeply col- 
ored by the surging blood in her face. 

He took her slender wrist in his strong steady 
grasp. They looked into each other’s eyes for an 
instant — hers dilated, inquiring; his steady, calm, 
yet fixed by the wondering thought rushing through 
his mind. 

“Dinner is served,” came Yama’s soft voice from 
the lawn. 

Madame served champagne with the clams. 
Manteufel finished the first glass at a draught, 
held it to the light and watched the few remaining 
bubbles climb up the stem. Yama refilled his glass. 
Madam sipped a little of the sparkling fiuid and 
set her glass down. 


THE FORSAKEN 


43 


was a tribnto to the gods/' ilanteufel 
laughed. ^^Oome, you can be a pagan for a mo- 
ment. Empty your glass.^’ 

wish I were a pagan for just one night/’ she 
ansAvered. Avould live such a night as Avould 
surge into my memory to its end/’ she added as 
she set down the empty glass. Yama refilled the 
glass. ^Tell me about yourself,” she went on, 
‘hibout your work, about that handsome boy of 
yours. He has your eyes. I remember how beau- 
tiful they AA^ere that day I first saw him.” 

^^They are the same still,” he ansAvered. ^^His 
mother had dark eyes.” 

^^You Avere born in Germany, Doctor, were you 
not?” 

‘^Yes, I AA as born in Berlin. Did the usual thing. 
Went to Heidelberg, took my academic degree, 
^[y father Avas in the army, in the artillery. I 
served in his branch of the service during my one 
year’s volunteer service. The general wanted me 
to stay in the army but I fell in Avith Langenbeck 
and studied medicine. This Avas^someAvhat of a 
bloAv to my military progenitor. HoAveA^er, I car- 
ried my point. In the end I met the daughter of 
the American ambassador and Ave were married. 
I came to Noaa^ York AAith her and took up the 
practise of my chosen Avocation there.” 

^^Yes, I remember your Avife, though I neA^er met 


44 


TITE FORSAKEN 


lior. The diplomatic set is quite isolated in this 
country. 

noticed that very earlj^/’ ]Manteufel resumed. 
^Aly wife died when Fritz was two years old. 
Since then I have worked most of the time. Gen- 
eral Manteufel is still alive, lectures at the mili- 
tary school and spends his leisure moments regret- 
ting Bismarck and my stubbornness in not coming 
back home. However, I am going to take Fritz 
over there and put him to school in Berlin. I can 
imagine him walking HJnter den Linden^ with his 
gray-haired grandfather and see the look of won- 
derment in his eyes when men salute the Iron Gross 
wliich the General wears.’’ 

A thoughtful look stole into ilanteufel’s face. 
He had the trick of voice Avhicli made women lis- 
ten and held the attention of men. He paused now 
to let Yama serve the cold consomme. 

^AVhen are you going to Berlin?'’ she asked him. 

^^^Ye sail tomorrow. Wilson will take care of 
wliat cases I have. I liave not many ; as you know, 
I do not do a general practise. You will find Wil- 
son a conscientious man.” 

^^And when do you come back?” she asked a trifle 
huskily. 

don’t know exactly. The general will be loathe 
to let me go. It is not intended as a display when 
I say that the making of my living, as you Ameri- 
cans call it, is not necessary to me.” 


THE FOESAKEN 


45 


“But you have worked very hard. You must 
have to achieve your position.” 

“Part of this is the outcome of a desire to win 
and partly because I married the daughter of the 
American ambassador.” He laughed as he said it, 
throwing back his head and showing the tense 
corded muscles at his throat. “Prosit,” he said, 
holding up his glass. “A bumper to the Kaiser,” 
he touched her glass and looked into her eyes, 
which were strangely brilliant in the meager light 
somewhat artfully arranged on the table. 

Her hand shook as she touched his glass with 
hers. “I envy you your freedom,” she said softly. 
“I envy you your boy. I hate the thought of a 
childless life.” She placed her hands on the table 
and elevated her shoulders. The gown at her neck 
bulged forward revealing the beginning of the fold 
between her breasts. 

“It was better for that child to die,” Manteufel 
said calmly. “Her life would have been nothing — 
only a burden to herself and those around her.” 

“I realize that. Doctor,” she answered slowly. 
“Let us not speak of it.” 

The wine was climbing to her head, her eyes 
shone, the cheeks flushed, her lips became a deep 
crimson. A reckless mood assailed her. “I pro- 
pose a buTO/peTi*^ sbe said quickly. “A bumper to 
posterity, to your boy, to the hope that \voman car- 
ries in her heart.” 


46 


THE FOESAKEN 


They became quite animated. She seemed sudi- 
denly possessed of faculties she had never known 
before. She talked well, made him talk of himself 
and of his ambitions. She prolonged the courses 
by serving the dishes herself. Between times she 
filled his glass herself. He emptied it as often as 
she filled it. 

Often she followed his example. It was a new 
experience, this giving herself up to the lure of 
forgetfulness. 

“We will serve coffee in the billiard-room,” she 
said at last. She led him through the library and 
on to a large low’ room built at one end of the house. 
The room was quite dark except for a tiny electric 
bulb w^hicli illuminated a small table in one cor- 
ner. The room was furnished with a billiard-table, 
some high chairs and a green rug. The windows 
were screened and opened out on the lawn toward 
the water. In the corner w^here the light stood w’as 
a roomy divan half covered with pillows. Mrs. Van- 
derlyn half reclined on the divan. Manteufel took 
a chair opposite her near the table. Yama brought 
the coffee. 

. “I will, serve it myself, Yama,” she said. . “I will 
ring when 1 want you. By the way, I think you had 
better go to the. village with those letters on the 
hall stand. . If I .wmnt anything, Ka-te can answer 
the bell.” 


THE FOESAKEN 


47 


“ I’ll serve the coffee,” Manteufel said. “ How 
many pieces of sugar?” 

“One, please. I usually take two, but I need 
less tonight.” 

“I am glad to know that,” Manteufel answered 
simply. The dim light of the electric bulb fell on 
her arm as she reached for the cup. Her hand 
grazed his wrist. 

“See the moon coming up from the hills of Long 
Island,” he said. “It will be a glorious night.” 
He half rose from his chair as he spoke. Her face 
was just below his now. He caught the perfume 
from a rose bush which grew outside the window. 
She passed her arm around his full strong neck and 
drew his lips to hers. “Let me be the primitive 
Eve for just this once,” she whispered, her lips 
yet close to his. 

* * * * * 

An hour later Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel 
lighted a fresh cigarette as the motor carried him 
smoothly toward the railroad station. 

Agnes stole up to her room, softly opened the 
door and lighted the electric bulb over her toilet 
table. The reflection in her glass made her. start 
“Agnes,” she muttered, “you are a fallem woman.’' 

“Is that you, Agnes?” came Vanderljm’s petu- 
lant -Voice from the adjoining chamber, -. . 

■ “Yes.” : She pushed' her hair into place and ’uren t 
in. 


48 


THE FORSAKEN 


“Turn up the light,” he asked. “My head aches 
me.” She turned the switch at the door. “You 
have not made the contact. Turn the switch an- 
other half turn,” Vanderlyn said impatiently. 

“Why, the light is on, Harry,” she said with a 
note of alarm in her voice. She stepped closer to 
his bed. 

“All is dark to me. . Oh !” he cried out, with un- 
measurable terror in his voice, “it has come at 
last. I am blind, blind, blind!” He tore at the 
bed clothes, emitting shrill cries of terror like a 
child which has become frightened in its sleep. 

Mrs. Vanderlyn stood aghast. “Blind, blind,” 
she repeated after him. “God in Heaven, blind!” 

“I’m falling, Agnes,” he said suddenly dropping 
his voice to a whisper. “Hold me. I am falling.” 

The servants came to the door. 

“Get a doctor, quick,” she bade them. She had 
lifted him by the shoulders, her light blue dress, the 
white neck, the darkened eyelashes making a sin- 
gular contrast to the gaunt figure with its bald 
head, hairy hands and blind, still eyes which 
seemed to stare stupidly into the light. After a 
time the man became still. He lay on the pillow 
with his eyelids closed as though waiting for some- 
thing. The doctor came in. Soon came another, 
but they shook their heads and went out. Agnes 
Vanderlyn crouched in a large cane chair, with 


THE FOKSAKEN 


49 


creton covered cushions and stared silently at her 
husband’s expressionless face. 

The clock on the mantel ticked on. The servants 
went to bed. Vanderlyn’s attendant took charge 
of him, administering at frequent intervals the 
opiate the doctors had left. 

Agnes remained crouched in the chair. At day- 
break fatigue gained the mastery and she fell 
asleep. 

“Where is madam?” Vanderlyn asked, as the 
day crept into the room. He had been lying per- 
fectly motionless for some time, his hands folded 
across his chest, his eyelids closed. 

“She is asleep in the big chair at the window,” 
the attendant answered. 

“Go down to the library. In the drawer of the 
writing desk, the middle one, you will find a leather 
covered book. Bring it to me.” 

The man, left the room. Vanderlyn slowly * 
raised himself to a sitting posture. He felt along 
the edge of the table at his bed-side, lifted the 
table cover and softly pulled out the drawer. His 
incoordinate hand groped in the drawer for a mo- 
ment and remained still. When he drew it forth 
he held! a slender vial with a red label on it. With 
difficulty he withdrew the cork with his teeth, 
placed the vial to his lips and let the tiny white 
tablets roll into his mouth and with some effort 
swallowed them. 


5U 


THE FOESAKEN 


Then he lay down on the pillow and folded 
again his thin scrawny hands across the bony chest. 
The attendant did not disturb him when he came 
back. After a time his breathing became heavy 
and heavier. The attemdiant bent over his bed. A 
bluish hue spread over the haggard features. He 
lifted the eyelids. The pupils were contracted to 
pin points. He opened the rigid hands. In the 
right hand was the vial. Then he understood. Not 
until the labored breathing ceased did he awaken 
the woman in the low cut blue gown, and led 
her to the bedside where the pallid face pointed 
inanimately toward the ceiling. 


CHAPTEE VI. 


Gray-toned February merged into milder March. 
The wind from the Mediterranean already had a 
touch of the coming Spring. Two grave men sat 
in the bay window of the sitting-room of the little 
villa at Fos. One, a slender little man with a 
clean shaven face and spectacles; the other, large, 
somewhat portly with gray hair and closely 
cropped gray beard. 

^^You think the outcome will be unfavorable. 
Master Tuffier?^^ the former said with an intona- 
tion one hears from a tired woman. 

hope so,^’ the elder man answered. ^^The 
woman^s condition is pitiable. It would be what 
the Germans call ^eine erloesung^ if she died. I 
never saw greater emaciation, even in lung tuber- 
culosis. Beyond this, when insanity comes imme- 
diately after child birth it not infrequently ends in 
recovery. When it develops during pregnancy re- 
covery rarely occurs. You tell me this woman has 
been varyingly maniacal and melancholy since she 
came here. That is six months ago, is it not?’’ 

^Wes, sir.” 

Tuffler rose and walked to the window. The 
gulf of Fos lay sparkling in the sunlight. Be- 
yond, the blue Mediterranean met the sky. ^^I 


52 


THE FOESAKEN 


envy you your peace and quiet here, Doctor Segond. 
Have you had a busy winter?” 

“Yes, I have been much occupied. This case has 
given me much concern. It seems strange that the 
sudden death of her husband should have had such 
a protracted effect. Of course, these posthumous 
births are unpleasant affairs, yet the conditions in 
this instance are disproportionate. I have had her 
fed with a tube for the last three weeks. She re- 
fused all nourishment. Sister Marie Gonzague has 
been most devoted. The woman constantly refers 
to the punishment of Eve. It has been ghastly. At 
times the delirium has been violently maniacal. 
We have had to tie her down. Then she would tear 
herself almost to pieces, constantly reverting to 
the one central delusion. Yet the girl baby seems 
healthy enough. For a day or two after the child 
came I hoped this would have a beneficial effect on 
the mother but such, you see, has not been the re- 
sult. It was good of you to run down from your 
beloved Paris, but you always were gooidi to your 
old students.” 

“It is a bit painful to hear you say ‘old stu- 
dents,’ ” Tufiier answered with a smile. “It makes 
me feel as old as history.” 

“You need not feel badly for that. Master; you 
have made a history. Many of the things which I 
heard in your clinic ring in my ears daily. I have 


THE FORSAKEN 


53 


carried your teaching with me into my peasants’ 
home and often achieved much with them.” 

“This woman is an American, is she not?” Tuf- 
fier asked. 

“Yes, sir. She came here six months ago, alone 
except for a maid. She seemed to have plenty of 
money — hired this villa, which you see overlooks 
the bay, and she has been there since. She was 
manifestly ill when she came. The maid sent for 
me after they had been here for a week. I have 
come here daily since.” 

The sister Maria Gonzague came to the door. 
“She is asking for the Abbe Herrara, Doctor Se- 
gond,” she said in the quiet voice of her class. 
“ She has seen the parish priest. Do you know 
Abbe Herrara?” 

“Yes, he is a Jesuit. He has been here for his 
health for several months. He does mission preach- 
ing. I will send him a note. Let him see her 
when he comes.” 

“It is getting near time for me to start,” Tufifier 
said, looking at his watch. 

“You are going back today, are you? I’m sorry, 
I had hoped to show you something of our country. 
Doctor,” Segond said a bit wistfully. 

The two men walked toward the door. “ You 
may continue with the injections at the same inter- 
vals, Sister,” Segond ordered the nurse. “I will 
step in this evening.” 


54 


THE FOESAKEN 


“It is strange how she holds out,” the nurse re- 
marked, as she held the door open for the men to 
pass out. 

Segond halted on the doorstep and placed his 
hand on the Sister’s arm. “When you have been 
longer at your chosen vocation, you will think noth- 
ing strange.” He held the door of the little coupe 
open for Tuffier to enter. “Thank you. Sister, for 
your assistance,” he addled as he stepped into the 
vehicle. 

He closed his eyes as they drove off. He was a 
Parisian by birth and lived there until a menac- 
ing pulmonary infection drove him to the shore 
of the Mediterranean. He had been ambitious, too. 
This echo from the scene of his first endeavors, this 
composed man at his side, aroused painful memo- 
ries, yet he smiled in another moment and let his 
hand rest for a moment affectionately on the elder 
man’s knee. 

“Your own health has much improved, Segond',” 
the Parisian said. 

“Yes, thank you. Here we are at the station. 
Your train is ready. Thank you again, and when 
you are tired enough come back and we will sail 
over the water and let the sun shine on our heads.” 

He watched the tall heavy figure climb into the 
train and turned back to his little coupe. 

The nurse entered the sick - room. Her charge 
lay quite still now, as though at last nature had 


THE FORSAKEN 


oo 


gone its full limit. She lay on her back, looking 
intently at the infant in its tiny crib beside her 
own bed. Segond had hopedi to rouse the woman 
into making an effort to live by keeping the infant 
near her at intervals. 

The nurse approached the bed and wiped the 
moisture from the patient’s forehead. Suddenly 
the patient began to speak. At first the words were 
unintelligible; after a time they became clear. 

“Take her to another country,” she said, now 
quite plainly, “where no one will know, where no 
one can see them. See, see, the tiny horns.” 

“You must not have these strange fancies, dear,” 
the nurse said gently. She lifted the damp cold 
head with its deeply sunken eyes and tensely drawn 
features. 

“Look! Do you not see them? See, they are 
there.” She pointed shakily at the slumbering 
infant. 

The nurse followed the finger. Surely the sparse 
thin hair stood up grotesquely over either temple. 
They did look like miniature horns. She went to 
the crib and brushed the hair gently with her fin- 
gers. It was rebellious, however, and sprang back 
into the original outline. She moistened it with 
water, causing it to lie flat with a few refractory 
wisps still curled from the scalp. 

The mother closed her eyes. “Thank you. They 
are gone,” she mumbled faintly and fell asleep. 


56 


THE FOKSAKEN 


The nurse sat quietly at the bedside. The Fours 
slipped by. At times the patient awakened and 
stared anxiously at the door, then sank back mumb- 
ling through dry parched lips. 

Someone tapped at the door. The patient’s face 
became alert. 

“Father Herrara is here,” the nurse said, turn- 
ing from the door. 

“Thank God. I wisih to be alone with him.” 

The nurse took the child up and slipped into the 
adijacent room. 

The priest entered timidly, his dark, handsome 
face with its bluish chin composed and still. 

“Come near. Father,” she began. “Sit down 
where I can see you as I speak.” 

The priest took a low chair beside the bed where 
the light from the bulb beside the bed shone on 
his face. 

“You wish to see me on some important matter, 
madam?” he asked in a singularly soft resonant 
voice. “You have your own confessor, have you 
not?” 

“Hear my tale. Father,” she said. “It calls for 
more than is involved in confession. Be patient 
with a dying woman who has sinned, yet wants the 
outcome of sin to never know the anguish which 
killed her mother.” 

She was perfectly rational as she spoke, as 
though the mind was made clear that she might 




THE FORSAKEN 


57 


help condone her sin. She told him all without fal- 
tering, from the rebellion at her fate to the accom- 
plishment of her end. 

The priest listened with unmoved countenance. 

“Does the man know?” he asked, as she paused. 

“He has been in Germany with his boy. He will 
never know,” she answered. She lay now for some 
time with her eyes closed, breathing quickly. 

“Name her Leah,” she resumed after a time, 
with some effort. “Leah, the Forsaken,” she added, 
after another pause. 

“God will not forsake her,” the priest said stead- 
ily, “nor will His servant.” 

The infant in the next room whined! feebly. The 
mother’s face became alert. She raised herself up 
on her elbow. The dry lips drew back slightly from 
the encrusted teeth. The next moment she sank 
back on the pillow, tossing her head restlessly from 
side to side and picking feebly at the bed linen 
with her thin transparent fingers. The sun went 
down, rose again shimmering in the East, climbed 
to the dome and dipped towards the West as Agnes 
Costello Vanderlyn passed into the unknown with 
staring eyes fixed on space. 

Doctor Segond trod wearily up the carpeted 
stairs and entered the room facing the West. The 
nurse had the infant on her lap. The child held 
its little fist close to its mouth. A long slender 
cloud had obscured the sun for a moment. The 


58 


THE FORSAKEN 


child stared vacantly toward the window. Just 
then the cloud drove on and the bright sunlight 
shone full on the child’s still eyeballs. The lids 
did not move. 

“Blind, by God,” Segond muttered. 


CHAPTEE VII. 


Feiederich Manteufel wrapped himself in a 
silk dressing gown, gave his thick light brown hair 
a parting rub with a towel, threw the towel on the 
floor, did an acrobatic stunt getting into his bath 
slippers and entered his living-room. 

The odor of flowers fllled the room. “After all,” 
he mused, “it is pleasant to have one’s birthday 
remembered.” He turned over a card attached to 
a magnificent bunch of American beauty roses. 
“My best wishes for your twenty-fifth birthday 
and sincere hope for a generous outcome to the 
next. Pierre.” 

“Good old Pierre,” he said aloud and turned to a 
little package lying on the library table in the 
center of the room. He opened the wrapper. A 
miniature in bronze of His Satanic Majesty rolled 
out of the last fold of tissue paper. It was well 
executed, showing the Fallen God poised on a rock 
with his great wings spread out, looking down into 
space. He opened the envelope fastened to the 
pedestal. 

“My dear Dev,” it read, “this is as near as I can 
get to immortalizing you. With apologies to Dore, 
I ask you to see the resemblance to yourself in at 
least the face. It is to be regretted that my timid- 


60 


THE FORSAKEN 


ity will not permit me to allude to the resemblance 
as regards the rest of the little figure. I shall 
carry you in my memory like this, however — idle- 
fiant, courageous, yet in my heart the woman’s 
hope that your gentler years will not be the result 
of too great a fall. Alice Barrett.^’ 

Fritz let the note drop to the table. 

“I wonder,” he said, “I wonder.” Louis, his 
valet, slave, masseur, comforter, half father, came 
in. “Will Monsieur have breakfast?” he asked. 

“Yes, but I Avill have an absinthe first. Make it 
strong. I had a hard night, Louis.” 

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

Fritz threw himself on the divan near the win- 
dow, and let his eyes pass over the room — a large 
comfortable affair, with dark green paper, com- 
fortable chairs, a writing-table, a mixture of De- 
taile and Richards, together with photographs of 
startling looking women which decorated the walls. 
A few bronzes tucked away in obscure corners ; one 
a marble bust of Marguerita in the corner near the 
window. The latter was somewhat marred by a 
woman’s silk garter with a gold buckle fastened 
around the neck. Brass desk set on the writing- 
table. A dark green rug covered the fioor. There 
were many smoking articles in many places. On 
the mantel- was a mighty eagle in brass with the 
dial of a clock held in its bill, flanked with a 


THE FORSAKEN 


61 


bronze bust of Von Moltke on one side and Bis- 
marck on tbe other. 

This day the room was filled with flowers, for 
Fritz Manteufel reached today his twenty - fifth 
birthday. 

“How like Alice to put a little gentleness into 
her sarcasm,” he muttered!. She had given him his 
title three years ago, one hilarious night after din- 
ner in his own rooms. “Manteufel is the German 
for Mandevil, is it not?” she had asked him. “Well, 
you are not quite enough for the real name, sup- 
pose we cut it off at both ends and call you Dev. 
Pretty, isn’t it?” And she flashed a look at him, 
half coquettish, half malicious. 

All his set had taken the name up from then on, 
and he was known in every cafe, and indeed, wher- 
ever he was accustomed to go, as “Dev.” 

He certainly proved himself worthy of the name. 
From the lad in the Russian blouse who timidly 
retreated! from his father’s office door eighteen 
years ago he had developed into a great, tall hand- 
some fellow with enormous shoulders, well set head 
and mighty arms, just as one would expect of the 
son of Ernst Manteufel. 

Too, one would expect from his training that he 
would develop the characteristics which justified 
the appellation given him by Alice Barrett. 
From his second year of life he had never had the 


62 


THE FOKSAKEN 


restraining influence of woman’s guidance. At 
seven, placed in the care of his grandfather, Gen- 
eral Manteufel, in Berlin, accustomed to go to 
school, for part of the day, take a promenade with 
the General in the afternoon or drive along the 
Berlin Park drives seated beside the old military 
officer, who sat bolt upright in the victoria, his 
cap down over his eyes, the sabre between his legs, 
the tightly buttoned military coat with its red 
facings looking as though filled with plaster of 
Paris, and who never moved except to raise his 
hand half way to his forehead in return to some 
salute accorded him as he went. 

Dinner at seven in the old house on Friederich 
Strasse, in a sombre dining-room furnished in black 
walnut with the bust of Kaiser Wilhelm on the 
mantel, a portentous cuckoo clock, a picture of a 
Lieutenant of Uhlans disemboweling a French 
curassier on one wall and a portrait in oil of the 
General’s deceased wife on the other. Some young- 
er officer usually appeared at precisely fifteen min- 
utes before seven each evening, clicking his heels 
together at the door of the General’s salon. He 
would touch his helmet, unhook his sabre and 
hand it together with the helmet to the servant 
in fatigue uniform, without moving an unnecces- 
sary muscle and then step rigidlly into the room, 
without a word until welcomed by the host with 
a smile and an inquiry as to how his regiment was 


THE FORSAKEN 


G3 

acting. If the younger officer had any other in- 
terest in life beyond the army it was never appar- 
ent during these visits, and at ten o’clock he left, 
going through much the same ceremony as upon 
entering. 

During these formalities Fritz was permitted 
to listen, and at nine o’clock walked gravely to the 
General’s knee, saluted him and after a nod of 
dismissal, turned on his heel and gravely walked 
out of the room. At times he would run when he 
reached the hall, and again at times he would dive 
into the kitchen and have a heart-to-heart talk with 
the fat cook who kept certain delicacies for him at 
the risk of being assassinated by the ^^Her vom 
Haus,” who did not approve of that sort of thing. 

Every two years the lad’s father came to Berlin. 
On each visit the same violent scene occurred, the 
elder man insistent that the Doctor should return 
to his native country, while the latter firmly re- 
solved to have his own way. 

The only change brought about by the presence 
of the lad’s father was that now the victoria held 
three instead of two, yet the salutations were the. 
same, the promenade the same, the dinners the 
same and the loveless life of the child the same. 
When Fritz was fourteen they one day found the 
General in full uniform sitting bolt upright in his 
chair, for he was to go to a reception given by the 
Kaiserin Augusta that day, with his hand clinched 


64 


THE FORSAKEN 


on his sabre-hilt staring rigidly into space with 
dead eyes. 

Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel came to Berlin, 
stood for a moment beside the grave of the elder 
man, lifted his hat from the arrogant, composed 
head and led his boy away, on to the sea, and over 
to the country of his adoption. Then came more 
school and ultimately Yale. Here the youth made 
no friends but compelled acquaintance. During 
the first year at college he broke the wrestling 
teacher’s collar-bone, assaulted a police officer in 
New Haven after a drunken dinner at Heublein’s, 
was arrested and fined:, but sent the policeman a 
note the nex., day inviting him to his rooms. There 
he goaded him into a quarrel and all but beat him 
to death. This affair was hushed up and Fritz made 
his crew. He rowed number five the day of the 
race, and crossed the finish line with his victorious 
crew in record time. 

His father watched the race from the judges’ 
boat, for he was a. famous surgeon now and was 
shown the distinction of viewing the contest from 
that desirable position. 

After the victorious crew flashed across the fin- 
ish line all but Fritz hung limply over their sweeps, 
for the race had been a gruelling one. As the 
judges’ boat came up Fritz sat erect in his seat, 
dripping water from the palm of his hand to his 
head. 


THE FOKSAKEN 


65 


Number six began to wobble in his seat. “Sit up, 
you cur,” Fritz spat out between his teeth. “If 
you faint I’ll beat you into pulp tonight.” He 
punched the youth in the back with his fist. The 
latter drew a long breath, but he did not faint. 

“Do yon feel all right, Fritz?” came the Doctor’s 
voice from the launch. 

“How in hell did you expect I’d feel?” Fritz 
answered. A trim steam yacht drew up that mo- 
ment with a large party aboard. A woman in a 
white gown turned to her companion, a slender 
youth with light blue eyes and long hair. 

“I would hate you if you ever talked like that 
to your father, Clarence,” the lady said. 

But Clarence had a wistful look in his face as 
he watched young Manteufel reach down to loosen 
the foot strap on his left foot. “I don’t know, 
mother,” he said after a moment. “I wish I could) 
sit up that way after four miles of that sort of 
thing.” 

Fritz had released his foot and now stuck it, cov- 
ered with blood from where the strap had cut into 
the flesh, into the water. “I’m going to town at 
once, Fritz,” the doctor called. 

“Go as far as you like, old man,” came the an- 
swer. “This bunch will celebrate tonight. I’ll see 
you Monday,” and he waved his hand at his father 
like the old general used to do when he was dis- 
missing an adjutant. 


66 


THE POBSAKEN 


On Fritz’s twenty-first birthday his father gave 
him a dinner, and had coffee served in the library 
where he introduced the young man to a dapper 
looking gentleman. 

“This is Mr. John Osborne,” he said, “of the firm 
of Osborne and Osborne, American representatives 
of the Manteufels’ attorney in Berlin. Today you 
become technically a man. Your mother left you 
an estate which has been put directly in charge of 
Osborne and Osborne. Besides this, your grand- 
father left you considerable money. The estate 
left you by your grandfather has been in charge 
of Johann Mueller of Berlin. It has been realized 
on, however, and the entire properties are now in 
the hands of Osborne and Osborne. The details 
can be taken up later. I want you to know that you 
are absolutely independent of me now technically, 
as you have been practically. Your income will be 
about twenty-five thousand dollars a year. I offer 
you no suggestions. I fancy you will carry out 
the Manteufel usual indulgence of doing as you 
please. I have the theory that men acquire the 
habit of domination more often when they are on 
their own resources. If you go broke I will proba- 
bly help you. However, you will also probably be 
permitted to accept a certain hardship if you act 
like a fool. What will you have, kuemmel or 
brandy? I have an engagement at nine to hear a 


THE FOESAKEN 


67 


new star sing. I fancy you would be bored, so I 
shall turn you over to Mr. Osborne.” 

“I will have a little brandy, please,” Fritz an- 
swered calmly. A week later he walked into his 
father’s consulting room. The elder Manteufel 
was seated at his desk adjusting a telephone bullet 
probe. He looked up at his tall son with a smile. 

“I have a new brand of cigarettes,” he said. 
“Have one?” Fritz helped himself to a cigarette, 
lighted it at an alcohol flame burning over an or- 
namental retort which had the shape of a serpent’s 
headi, blew the smoke into the air, seated himself 
opposite his father and remarked, “I am going to 
Paris.” 

“Go ahead,” was the reply from the elder man. 
“I will run ov r to see you in the Spring. We 
could do Berlin, etc., together.” 

“All right. Will you dine with me at the club?” 

“Yes. What time do you dine?” 

“At seven. You might slip into a dinner coat. 
I will get seats for a comic opera.” 

“Thank you. At seven, then.” The elder man 
turned to his probe. 

“Auf wiedersehen,” Fritz muttered and went out. 

The farewell dinner at the club given to Fritz 
by his father went through his mind as he lay on 
the divan in his Paris apartment sipping the ab- 
sinthe Louis had trapped for him. He saw the 


68 


THE FORSAKEN 


elder man, immaculate in full evening clothes, his 
handsome gray head and beard carefully groomed, 
the little decoration of the order of Bolivar in his 
coat, sitting at the head of the table; the brilliant 
gay conversation, the carefully served dinner, the 
final handshake. He heard his father’s even voice 
saying, “I do not fancy these steamer farewells. 
Then, too, you will probably reach the boat just 
as the hawser is cast off, driving a runabout motor, 
as the outcome of a bet that you could do it in 
ten minutes, and found you had to bribe a traffic 
policeman not to arrest you for speeding. Good- 
bye. I’ll see you in Paris.” 

He had not answered. For a moment he would 
have been glad to have one gentle word from the 
austere man with the calm gray eyes. But it did 
not come and Fritz turned to the other guests. 
He had no idea of doing what his father had men- 
tioned, but he did it nevertheless, just because he 
fancied his father did not want him to do it. He 
made the steamer just as the gang-plank was being 
shoved ashore. 

All this was four years ago. Since then he had 
lived in Paris, with occasional invasions of other 
countries. Doctor Manteufel came to Europe 
every year and the two men saw each other daily, 
mostly at dinner, however, or at the play. Fritz 
spent his days studying literature and art. He be- 
lieved that this occupation was less apt to interfere 


THE FOESAKEN 


09 


with his comforts. It also made it possible for 
him to sit up late at night playing cards, or sup- 
ping with the rather Bohemian set in which he 
moved. 

He was not, however, a hard drinker nor an in- 
veterate gambler and, indeed, took very good care 
of himself — rode horseback, fenced, walked, swam 
and, on the whole, followed the life of the Parisian 
man about town. Of his acquaintances Alice Bar- 
rett, an American girl two years his junior, inter- 
ested him most, yet this never went beyond the 
somewhat liberal indulgences common among 
Americans in Paris. At first she had the notion 
that she could tame the young giant, but failing in 
this, his absolute refusal to conform to restric- 
tions, loose as they were, of the set composed of 
art students, caused her to gradually withdraw her- 
self, and for two years the pair had not met except 
for a fleeting bow “en route.” 

Soon after she had fixed the name of “Dev” on 
him she had seen him driving one of the best known 
w'omen of the demi-monde down the Bois in his 
motor. The woman was talking earnestly to her 
escort and the latter was listening with a bored 
expression on his face. 

She had warned him later of the dangerous game 
he was playing, for the woman was a notorious 
“wrecker of hearts and homes,” and had been an- 
swered with a laugh and a shrug of Dev’s should- 


70 


THE POESAKEN 


ers. Soon the affair became too strongly manifest 
for even the tolerant set he moved in, and Alice 
Barrett together with the other women slowly with- 
drew. This was no great hardship to Dev, however, 
who amused himself with his new toy and thus car- 
ried out the traditions of his heritage and did as 
he pleased. 

The affair had irked him of late, however, and 
when he had finished his breakfast he was some- 
what annoyed at a visit from madam’s maid. 

She brought a note from her mistress which she 
had refused to deliver into other hands than his 
own and stood now in the door frame waiting for 
a reply. 

“You have neglected me shamefully,” it read. “I 
won’t stand it any longer. Fritz, I am desperate. 
You have come into my life and ruined it and now 
you want to leave me. Come to me tonight or I 
will kill myself. Do not stay away from me on 
your birthday. Elaine Bridau.” 

“Present my compliments to madam, and tell her 
I will call her on the wire later in the day,” Dev. 
said lazily. The maid withdrew. 

Louis’ smug face appeared in the door. “Mon- 
sieur, Colonel Claude Bernard has just telephoned 
he will breakfast with you at nine.” 

Bernard was a colonel of cavalry attached to 
the secretary of war’s office, forty-five years of age, 
chiefiy notorious for the quantity of absinthe he 


THE FORSAKEN 


71 


could consume in twenty-four hours, and was usu- 
ally assigned to handle makers of uniforms and 
ordinance. Fritz had made his acquaintance early 
in his Paris life, and the two indulged in their 
dissipations together. The affair with the Brideau 
woman had been a source of annoyance even to 
the lax morals of Bernard. He had frequently 
made her the text of dissertations on the necessity 
of glossing certain actions over; advice Fritz with 
his usual radicalism had refused to accept. The 
last few months Bernard had attempted to induce 
Manteufel to accept an appointment as second lieu- 
tenant of cavalry of the Foreign Legion, believing 
that the discipline would have a favorable result 
both physically and morally on his young friend. 
Then, too, he felt that in this way the Brideau 
affair would find a normal end. This concern for 
Manteufel’s moral status was in peculiar contrast 
to the usual manner of this complete man of the 
world. However, he was genuinely fond of the 
young cub, and felt that unless he was taken out 
of his entanglement there would be one of those 
unfortunate outcomes which blaze in the headlines 
of the yellow journals even in Paris. 

Promptly at nine o’clock the Colonel presented 
himself, in freshly pressed fatigue uniform, cigar- 
ette in the corner of his mouth, and mustache 
turned up. He threw his cap on the divan, un- 
hooked his sabre and handed it to Louis, then he 


72 


THE FORSAKEN 


shook hands with Fritz, and sat down in a big 
chair, crossed his rather well made legs, and began. 
“That affair the other night was pretty raw, old 
man. I think it might be better for you to restrict 
your alcoholic indulgences to the privacy of ma- 
dam’s apartments. But I am not going to preach. 
I have an appointment with Guillaume Recamier, 
our honored chief, and perhaps after the interview 
you will think of accepting the suggestion I have 
repeatedly offered you.” 

“I have a note now from Madam,” Dev said irri- 
tably. “I must confess the thing is getting on my 
nerves. If she were poor the proposition would be 
easy. As it is, her diamonds would keep her for 
the rest of her life. I am sure I don’t know what 
the devil to do. All right, I will go and see your 
chief. It is now nine o’clock. We can have break- 
fast leisurely, smoke a cigarette, and make our 
official call.” 

“Good boy!” Bernard cried with some exulta- 
tion in his voice. “If the matter is handled prop- 
erly you will get an appointment as aide de camp 
on the staff of the commander of the department of 
Algiers, with whom I served myself for a year. I 
will see that you are comfortably quartered, and 
properly taken care of. The work is easy, and you 
would probably not be detailed into the desert un- 
less some unusual condition arises. I warn you, 
however, that Jean Baptiste Moreau has an exceed- 


THE FOESAKEN 


73 


ingly attractive environment. I would suggest 
that you, if you go, lay out a certain routine as 
regards method of living for a few weeks. It would 
be necessary for you at least to understand in a 
superficial sort of way the handling of men. Be- 
yond this your duties will consist more largely of 
looking well on horseback, and trying to keep 
sober after dinner after evening parade. Come, 
I will give you a walk on the Bois before you ap- 
pear at headquarters. You look a little rocky.” 

Promptly at ten, a well groomed orderly showed 
the two men into the office of General Eecamier, a 
short slender man, of fifty-five, in well fitting uni- 
form, polished boots, carefully brushed hair, and 
a faint odor of perfume about him, the latter con- 
veying the idea that he would look just as well in 
skirts. He stepped forward quickly, however, and 
greeted Bernard and Manteufel with rather a 
warm shake of the handl “I am a busy man,” he 
said, “am sorry I have not as much time to devote 
to you as I would like. However, the difficulty in 
your instance. Monsieur Friederich Manteufel, is 
that you are not a citizen of this country. It will 
be necessary for you, before you get a commission, 
to take the oath of allegiance. This, however, can 
be done in my office. The ceremony of swearing 
the colors is a simple one. You can take that to- 
gether with a number of recruits which we swear 
in weekly at the arsenal.” 


74 


THE FORSAKEN 


“You seem to take it for granted that I am ready 
to serve in your department, sir,” Fritz answered. 
He was standing now at the minister’s desk playing 
with a bronze paper weight cast in the form of a 
nymph. “My name has usually been enlisted 
against your country.” 

“Time is a great diluent to all human emotion, 
Monsieur Manteufel. I fancy you would not have 
come to me had you not made up your mindi in 
the matter. Again, I will do you the honor of 
stating that we prefer to have the name with us. 
It is the height of mental development to make a 
friend of an hereditary enemy. If I understand it, 
you are an American 'born.” 

“I am an American born,” Fritz answered with 
a barely perceptible straightening of his shoulders. 

“Come, Dev, be a good sport. The thing will do 
you good,” Bernard interposed. “I’ll go with you 
to Algiers and stay a week. I can put you on to the 
best cafes, etc. Then I’ll come back and you have 
my assurance that our friend! Brideau will not 
make any trouble for you when I have talked to 
her.” 

“Done,” Fritz said with a sudden flash in his 
gray blue eyes. “I am ready to take the oath of 
allegiance, sir,” he added, turning to Eecamier, 
who had lighted a perfumed cigarette. The cere- 
mony was over in a moment. 

“I am glad to welcome you into the army, sir,” 


THE FOESAiKEN 


75 


Bernard said. His voice had become suddenly 
grave. He reached out his hand to Manteufel, with- 
out moving his booted feet and bowed slightly at 
the waist. 

A week later the Marseilles - Algiers steamer 
“Medusa” deposited the pair at the wharf at 
Algiers. 

An hour later Monsieur Lieutenant Friederich 
Manteufel of the Sixty-ninth Cavalry of the For- 
eign Legion presented himself at the residence of 
Jean Baptiste Moreau, was assigned to quarters 
and at sundown sat behind the reviewing officer 
as the division filed by. 

Elaine Brideau did not kill herself. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The department commander looked a bit im- 
patiently at the trim orderly. The commander had 
everything about him in trim. The persistent at- 
tention given to every detail of his surroundings 
was responsible for the absence of lines in his hand- 
some, clean-cut face. It was also responsible for 
the palms which decorated the veranda, for the 
green and yellow striped awning which kept the 
sun from obtruding on the little space with its cane 
sofa, cane chairs, and light wood writing desk. 
Just at present the sofa was occupied by a woman 
of twenty with dark slumberous eyes, opulent fig- 
ure, fair skin, and a loose kimona heavily embroid- 
ered with Japanese figures. At her elbow stood a 
wicker table holding two tall glasses, filled with 
cracked ice. Absinthe was slowly dripping from 
superimposed glass bowls which had tiny holes in 
the middle allowing greenish drops of absinthe to 
drip on the ice below and slowly cloud the water 
at the bottom with an opalescent hue. The depart- 
ment commander sat at his desk, his legs crossed, . 
booted and spurred, in immaculate white pique, a 
crimson sash, a gold star at the collar of his blouse, 
the Legion of Honor decoration on his breast. One 
equally immaculately white gauntlet lay on the 


THE FORSAKEN 


77 


desk, the other covered the left hand, a white ca]) 
with a shining leather visor hung suspended from 
the woman’s foot. She was trying to balance it as 
she had seen juggler’s do in the theatre. 

“Well, Orderly, what do you want?” the com- 
mander asked. 

“Monsieur le Lieutenant Manteufel to see you, 
sir.” 

“Show him in.” The General rolled a dainty 
Egyptian cigarette between his fingers, placed the 
end with his monogram between his lips, brushed 
the mustache which was liberally sprinkled with 
gray aside with a slender white well groomed hand, 
and pushed some papers towardi the edge of the 
desk. 

The woman on the sofa patted her inky black 
hair into place, pushed the loose sleeves of the 
kimona up over her shoulders and looked for a 
moment at the white smooth arm. 

Hortense Marie Laborde w’as the daughter of an 
Arab woman by a French soldier. She also was 
the mistress of tfie department commander. Chiefly 
because she was startlingly beautiful, could do 
Oriental diances, had an antipathy to attire, drank 
like a trooper and had the Oriental’s fear of her 
lord and master and consequently behaved with 
decorum when ordered, only indulging in. loose 
habits when not under observation. On the whole 
she was happy enough. Born in a brothel, raised 


78 


THE FOKSAKEN 


in the streets, picked up by the church, educated 
by nuns, she ultimately kicked over the traces and 
became the mistress of the commander of the De- 
partment of Algiers. 

Jean Baptiste Moreau, the department com- 
mander, was good to look at, rich, a pet of the home 
government, had a brilliant staff around him, en- 
tertained lavishly, was a widower, fifty-two years 
of age, and didn’t care what Mademoiselle did as 
long as she amused him, bathed frequently and did 
not demonstrate her affairs too manifestly. In 
addition to this he was a good soldier, a strict dis- 
ciplinarian in all matters military, and had discre- 
tion enough to close his eyes to annoying complica- 
tions of a social nature. 

Consequently his mistress obeyed him, his sol- 
diers adored him and his staff loved him. 

“What has poor Fritz done now?” she asked with 
a smile exposing her teeth. 

“You ask embarrassing questions, my dear. 
However, the matter is a personal one and will in- 
terest you as all matters pertaining to that good 
looking cub always do. Ah! come out, Fritz,” he 
called into the room adjoining the veranda, as he 
heard the visitor’s sabre strike against a piece of 
furniture. 

Fritz stepped out through the open windP-w. 
The six months of military life had done him no 
harm. On the contrary, the slight carelessness of 


THE FOESAKEN 


79 


carriage of the boulevardier had vanished) and the 
added stiffness of deportment sat well on his pow- 
erful well balanced body. He clicked his heels to- 
gether, raised the sabre from the floor with his left 
hand and brought the right sharply to his visor. 

Moreau waved his hand toward Hortense. Fritz 
stepped forward, bowed profoundly, removed his 
cap and kissed the hand the woman lazily held to- 
ward him. 

“My compliments. Madam. You look charming 
this morning. General, I congratulate you.” 

Hortense let her eyelashes sweep her cheek and 
lubbed her bare arm against Fritz’s sabre scabbard. 

“Sit down, Fritz. Have a little absinthe. The 
morning is hot,” the General said in his low voice. 
Yet the intonation was a bit more incisive than 
usual. 

Fritz sat down in a big chair resting the sabre 
scabbard between his legs. “I have just had an 
absinthe, thank you.” 

“Try one of these cigarettes,” Hortense put in. 

Fritz lighted one, blew the smoke in a thick 
cloud into the warm clear air, watched it obscure 
for an instant the little patch of the Mediterranean 
visible a moment before through the foliage, and 
then waited for the Commander to begin. 

“Ben Batouch is dead,” the Commander said 
quietly. 

“He will reincarnate as a swine,” Fritz an- 


80 


THE FOKSAKEN 


swered, without taking the cigarette from liis 
mouth. 

“What is the woman like, Fritz?” Hortense 
asked. 

“That will do, Mademoiselle,” the General ad- 
monished somewhat sharply. “You may remain 
if you keep quiet, otherwise I must trouble you 
to withdraw. I know you do not fancy exertion at 
this time of day.” 

“The affair is bad, Fritz,” Moreau said', turning 
again to the young officer. “It’s true the man 
should not have denounced you in a pubilc cafe 
as the lover of his favorite wife. But that is no 
reason why you should have split his skull open 
with a champagne bottle. The man was respected 
in his set and has many friends. You know I 
place little restrictions on my aids. In the six 
months of your service on my staff you have per- 
formed your duties with care and accuracy. In- 
deed, I have been glad to have you with me. You 
are the youngest of my men. You have done much 
good' with your fencing and academy works, and I 
do not wish to have you in trouble. Still the na- 
tives must be at least apparently sustained when 
they are in the right.” 

Fritz did not answer, he went on smoking and 
looked vacantly into space. 

“Fouchard, you know, is at Ath Sefra with a 
squadron of cavalry, getting ready to relieve the 


THE FORSAKEN 


81 


garrison at El Mungar. El Mungar is one hundred 
and fifty miles from Ath Sefra. From Ath Sefra 
the march is in the desert. You will start tonight 
by rail for Perragaux. The train is a good one. 
From Perragaux you will take a special for which 
I have wired. This will get you to Ath Sefra in 
about six hours. On the whole, the entire jour- 
ney should not last more than eighteen hours. 
You will present my compliments to Colonel Fou- 
chardi and serve as his personal aid. Cattle will 
be furnished you by his quartermaster. The public 
here will be satisfied. I will see that the native 
papers record your being sent off. The thing will 
quiet down. You can return with the men relieved 
at El Mungar. The Moroccoans have been a bit 
restless. You may see some active service that will 
do 3'ou good.” The Commander rose and Fritz 
rose with him. “I am going down to the barracks, 
Monsieur le Lieutenant. You need not escort me.” 
He shook hands with the younger man. There was 
not much difference in height between the men, 
though the advantage, slight as it was, lay with the 
American. The Commander picked up his cap and) 
placed it on his thick gray hair, which together 
with his beard he kept closely cropped. “God 
bless you, my boy, and come back tamed,” he added 
as he shook the aide by the hand. 

Fritz stood at attentipn as the elder man passed 
out. He did not answer but brought his hand to 


82 


THE FORSAKEN 


his forehead and watched the Commander step 
quickly down the gravel walk and swing lightly 
into the saddle of a strongly-built horse which his 
orderly held by the bridle at the little gate leading 
to the grounds. 

“Why do you never make love to me, Monsieur 
le Lieutenant?” Hortense asked as the Com- 
mander’s horse’s hoof-beats died down. “You make 
love to every other woman in Algiers. Am I not 
as attractive as they are?” She gave a coquettish 
little laugh. “Here, pull your chair up to me. I 
will make a fresh absinthe, these are too thin.” 

Fritz pulled his chair closer to the recumbent 
figure. Hortense poured the absinthe from the 
glasses into a crystal bowl and refilled the drip- 
bowls. “You are a perfect bear,” she went on, with 
a glance out of the corner of her eye. One of the 
glasses was difficult to reach with the absinthe 
kiraffe, and as she leaned over she all but toppled 
to the floor. 

Fritz steadied her quickly with his hand against 
her breast. She gave a little startled cry but did 
not attempt to regain the 'safe position. Fritz 
held her while she poured the absinthe. 

“Here, take the kiraffe, Fritz. With the other 
hand — ^you can hold your cigarette with those al- 
luring lips of yours.” She laughed gayly as he 
took the kiraffe. “Now help me turn over, that’s a 


THE FORSAKEN 


83 


good boy.” She put her hand over his and pressed 
it firmly against her round warm neck as he pushed 
her toward the center of the sofa. 

He had half risen from his chair to help her, 
and was now bent over her with his face quite 
close to hers. She took the cigarette from his 
mouth with the disengaged hand, slipped the other 
round his neck, raised herself quickly from the 
sofa and kissed him full on the lips. “Perfectly de- 
licious. Here, take your absinthe,” she handed him 
the glass, “and here is a fresh cigarette.” She took 
one from the fold of her kimona. “It is scented 
with a rare Arabian perfume.” 

“It has been close enough to you, my dear,” he 
answered, “not to need any Arabian or other 
scent.” He laughed his careless, hearty laugh, 
startling a gold and yellow bird from one of the 
palm trees in the garden. It darted quite close to 
the awning and disappeared into the little patch 
of Mediterranean. 

“I wish I were as free as that,” she said with a 
touch of pathos in her voice. “To fiy off with you 
into the desert and hold you there for myself, my- 
self alone.” 

“Hortense Laborde, you are a liar,” Fritz an- 
swered. “You know very well that you much pre- 
fer to lie on that couch and sip iced absinthe and 
have the entire staff systematically and in rota- 


84 


THE FOKSAKEN 


tion come here and tell you how beautiful you are. 
So don’t stimulate my notorious self-love so early 
in the day.” 

“What is that Batouch woman like, Fritz? I 
envy her. I’ll bet she’s more beautiful than I am. 
I hate her anyAvay.” She gave a little pout. 

“Oh! don’t bother me about her. She has been 
trouble enough.” 

“I don’t blame her a bit for falling in love with 
you, my boy. No indeed, not a bit. Come over here 
and sit on the lounge.” She moved back to make 
room for him. 

“Not much, you little devil. I’m not ready to 
have a duel on with the entire staff. Anyway, I 
am off for that infernal hole of an El Mungar this 
evening. I might have an Arab bullet make day- 
light through me, and then you’d have to retraii* 
your affections. Come, I must go.” He rose as 
he spoke and pulled his blouse down under his 
belt. 

“Don’t be such a baby. Your man can pack 
your things in ten minutes. You are off duty. 
Stay here and talk to me.” 

The hurried footsteps of Moreau’s adjutant 
came up the gravel walk. Fritz called to him from 
the veranda. 

“^lonsieur le Commander is at the barracks, 


sir.” 


THE FOKSAKEN 


85 


“Thank you, I am aware of that. I have a mes- 
sage for Madam. Is she there?” 

“Yes, sir,” Fritz answered. He turned to Hor- 
tense and made his adieu. “Thank fortune I’m out 
of this,” he muttered as he passedj out. 

The next moment the adjutant, a slender man 
with a haggard tanned face, came out on the ve- 
randa. Hortense Labor de looked at him with a 
glance which bore a striking resemblance to the 
one she had given Lieutenant Manteufel. 

Fritz walked rapidly to the road where his or- 
derly was holding two horses, and swung into the 
saddle of his own mare. “Go to my quarters,” he 
ordered as the orderly mounted his own horse. 
“Tell the congenital idiot who goes by the name of 
Louis to pack up my fatigue stuff. Tell him I’m 
going into the field. Also tell him I do not want 
all my toilet articles or he’ll put up the entire mess. 
Come then to Mademoiselle Rougon’s house and 
get my horse. You may go off duty then until 4 
o’clock. At that hour bring the mare to me. I 
will make the evening parade.” He stuck the spur 
into his mare and galloped rapidly down the road. 

A few moments later he drew up before Camille 
Rougon’s little villa. 

“Madam is in the garden,” the maid told him 
as he approached the house. 

“Very well,” he answered, patting the girl’s 
cheek with his gloved hand. The maid let her 


HU 


THE FORSAKEN 


needle work rest in her lap and smiled up into the 
young officer’s face. 

Fritz went on into the garden. Camille Rougon 
was two years older than Fritz. She had eyelashes 
which had a tendency to melt into black streaks 
in very hot weather. HoAvever, she needed not 
this decoration, for the lashes were pretty enough 
naturally. Still, she thought resorting to the arts 
made a better contrast with her dark red hair, 
which grew in great abundance on a well made 
head. Beyond this she had glorious blue eyes, 
white skin, a strongly made full figure, small feet 
and beautiful hands marred by a faint, stain of 
nicotine where her cigarette habitually rested. 
She was seated in a low cane chair placed, under 
a thickly leaved Japanese maple tree, planted 
there many years before by a French merchant 
who had occupied the house until he made money 
enough robbing the natives to live near his beloved 
boulevards. 

Camille Rougon had had a checkered career. 
Born in Paris, the daughter of a restaurant keeper. 
She had served hot dishes and cold wine to her 
father’s clients until she was sixteen. At that 
time a theatrical manager had put her in the 
chorus of a comic opera. After, that she went to 
the usual course, and ultimately became the mis- 
tress of a lieutenant of cavalry who was ordered 
to Algiers because of certain unusual occurrences 


THE FOESAKEN 


87 


which made headquarters feel that he had better 
get a little tropical sunlight on his hide for a time. 
At the end of a year the officer had the misfortune 
to get drunk and fall from his horse while riding 
home at daybreak. The fall broke his neck and 
Camille was thrown on her own resources. These, 
however, were ample. In a short time she was 
the most sought after courtesan in Algiers. The 
occupation was a profitable one. She owned the 
little villa, kept three servants and a pair of horses 
which pulled her along the esplanade every after- 
noon before sundown. Soon after Fritz’s arrival 
in Algiers she had seen him ride down the main 
street with Moreau. The length of limb, the square 
shoulder, the entire make-up pleased her fancy. It 
was only a matter of a scented note, a glorious 
moonlit starry night, a cold well served dinner, 
coffee under the trees, the soft warm air of the 
tropics, a whiff of perfume, a drop of a well trained 
voice, her breath against his cheek and Fritz made 
almost daily visits to the little villa overlooking 
the sea^ 

She had found keeping her tall soldier a bit 
more difficult than she had deemed possible. Not 
infrequently the restless spirit of the man drew on 
her arts to their fullest extent. The conquest at- 
tracted her. Never before had the situation been 
thus reversed. Once she had caught sight of him 
bending over a well-groomed young woman in a 


88 


THE FORSAKEN 


box at tbe theatre. She bad felt a jealous pang 
dart through her. Just then the girl placed her 
hand on the young officer’s arm and smiled up into 
his handsome arrogant face. He smiled back into 
her eyes in a way with which the courtesan was 
familiar and she had felt a wild desire to strangle 
the “pale fgced hussy,” as she called her under her 
breath. The next day she had used every art to 
entrance him with her allure, and after sending 
him home at daybreak, analyzed the situation a 
bit more accurately from the standpoint of physi- 
cal fatigue. 

Her judgment told her that the affair was a thing 
of the moment to him, but he had aroused the 
latent woman within her, brought up the natural 
slave instinct of her sex and she was ready to ren- 
der herself subservient to his every mood to hold 
him. This was a disquieting conclusion; yet, she 
was woman enough to see the writing on the wall, 
and for once the tears that rolled down her cheeks 
were not artistically mopped up so that they might 
not wash the stain from her eyelashes, and she 
let them flow unhampered and stain the pillow 
case. 

She looked up now with a brightening light in 
her eyes as she heard his heavy footfalls on the 
grass and sprang into his arms as he approached. 

He sat her down in her chair and squatted at 
her feet 


THE FOESAKEN 


89 


“What brings you here so early in the day, Fried- 
erich?” she asked. She was perhaps the only one 
to call him Friederich. 

“No bad news I hope. Yes, there is something,” 
she added quickly. “Tell me, what is it?” She 
ran her hand through his abundant hair. “It’s 
that Batouch affair? You were unwise there, 
Friederich dear.” 

“I did not like being charged with an affair with 
a fat unwashed Arab woman,” Fritz answered sul- 
lenly. 

“She is quite universally regarded as beautiful. 
I’m glad you do not like her.” 

“Well, never mind that now. Moreau has or- 
dered me to Ath Sefra, Fouchard’s staff aide de 
camp. One hundred and fifty miles of desert, after 
that. I hope Fouchard has a portable rum trunk.” 

“You are going away?” she burst out. She rose 
startled. “You may get shot. I know the Mo- 
roccos have been very bad again. Oh! Friederich, 
what will become of me if anything happens to 
you?” 

“Get another damned ass of a staff officer, I 
hope. Don’t expect you to wear black and go to 
mass daily. However, black would look well with 
that flaming head of yours.” He gave his hearty 
contagious laugh. Camille did not join him. She 
remained silent so long that Fritz looked up with 
some surprise. 


90 


THE FORSAKEN 


She was looking past him, out toward the blue 
sun-dazzled Mediterranean. One hand rested on 
her breast, the other hung loosely by her side. 

“The devil !” he broke in. “You look like a Puri- 
tan maiden waiting for the return of a fisherman. 
My dear, you should have been an actress — I mean 
a real actress. You make me wish I had not broken 
Batouch’s skull. Come, kiss me.” 

She came to him and wound her arms around his 
neck. “You will come back, Friederich? Promise 
you will. I will die without you.” She reached 
over and pressed him tenderly. “I deserve some- 
thing in my life,” she went on with her full warm 
lips against his cheek. “I will not let you go. I 
will see Moreau. I will beg him on my knees. 
He will listen to me.” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Fritz cried 
fiercely. He pushed her violently from him. “Do 
you think I am one of that kind of cattle? Where 
out of hell did you get that impression from?” 

She had staggered as he pushed her and sank now 
to the thick odorous grass with her face buried in 
the soft fiesh of her arm. 

“You must have rubbed against a fine set of 
people,” Fritz went on. “Here, look at me.” 

She raised a pale frightened face and stared at 
him with wide glistening eyes. “I have seen them 
come back from the desert,” she moaned, “haggard, 
hollow-eyed, awful, dry-lipped, delirious, mumbling 


THE FORSAKEN 


91 


through encrusted teeth, begging for death. Most 
of them did not know how to pray. Tall young 
boys, strong dark-eyed men, blue-eyed blonde 
giants, even like you, Friederich, when they went.” 
She shuddered and buried again her face in her 
arm. 

“Oome, get up,” he said more gently. He took 
her to her chair. “I am going to Ath Sefra, and 
then on to the desert. There must be no misunder- 
standing about that. I will come back and I will 
be just as tall, and just as straight, and,” he added 
with a smile, “just as ready to offer myself at the 
shrine of Camille Rougon as when I left.” 

“I will go with you to Ath Sefra,” she said 
softly through the blinding tears. “I will see you 
go out into the never-ending sand. I want to carry 
your image in my heart, as you look riding away. 
I will watch you with your beautiful head high 
over all the rest, close to the colors, and you must 
wave your hand at me just as distance engulfs you. 
You will let me go, Friederich? Please, dear.” 

She rose as she finished speaking and held her 
smooth white arms toward him where he stood 
leaning against the Japanese maple, one hand on 
the sabre hilt, the other playing with a leaf which 
barely touched his bronzed cheek. “No,” he an- 
swered steadily. “I will leave you at four o’clock, 
in time for the evening parade. Then I will go on 
alone. I do not intend to make this affair easier 


92 


THE FORSAKEN 


than is intended. Stay here with your maids, your 
perfumed robes, and your cold absinthe. For once 
I am going without the softening note of the femi- 
nine in my life. Come, it is time for lunch.” 

She obeyed him without further comment. At 
four o’clock he sprang into the saddle at her gate 
and galloped rapidly to his quarters, made his final 
arrangements, and just as the sun went down sat 
at attention on his mare with his sabre pointed to 
the ground as the colors came down and the drums 
and bugle sounded “off.” 

jVIoreau’s sonorous voice rang out. “Pass in re- 
view, by columns of company — first company squad 
right, forward, march.” 

Fritz brought his sabre to a “carry,” prodded the 
rigid mare into activity and watched the brigade 
slowly pass by. The men at port arms, the sword 
bayonets of the Zouaves glistening in the twilight. 
He sheathed his sabre with the rest, saluted Moreau 
with the hand, caught the nod of dismissal from his 
chief, wheeled the mare about and a few moments 
later threw his bridle to his orderly at the railroad 
station, and soon was being bumped over the un- 
even roadbed of the Algerian coast line toward 
Perragaux. 


CHAPTER IX. 


The ride from Perragaux had been less stifling 
than the trip from Algiers to that beautiful sun- 
baked railroad junction. The special consisted of 
a locomotive and a parlor car. 

“How like Moreau to dilute his acridity with 
some softening addition at the time you expect to 
get to the dregs,” Fritz had thought as a well 
groomed porter took his baggage. However, a sup- 
ply train had the bad manners to get wedged into 
a switch at a siding and it took a band of sweating 
Arabs and profane railroad men to extricate it. 
Not until several hot hours had gone into history 
and it was near sundown was Ath Sefra reached. 
A rather daintj^ looking orderly well brushed and 
polished, Avith white gauntlets met Fritz at the 
shed, which was called the railroad, station. He 
led him to a round barrelled fidgety mare of chest- 
nut hue and a restless nose, and led the way past 
a long row of supply sheds to the headquarters 
of Colonel Fouchard. 

Colonel Fouchard lived in a roomy hospital tent. 
The Government had intended, it to be used for a 
hospital, but Fouchard was a fastidious gentleman 
and liked it and had it, 

Fritz dismounted at a gravel walk edged Avith 


!)4 


THE FOKSAKEN 


whitewashed stones which led to his Chiefs tent. 
The Colonel had issued orders that all must dis- 
mount here — ^he did not like dust in his quarters. 
A group of orderlies held a peculiar assortment of 
horses. They were tall, lank beasts, remarkably well 
groomed, a few half Arabs and several that looked 
like thoroughbreds. 

“A fine time to start for El Mungar,” he heafid 
one of them say, as he dismounted. “Beautiful 
torrid July. Well, some one will bleach his bones 
out there. I’ll bet.” 

“Shut your gape,” another put in hastily, with 
a gesture toward Fritz. ‘There comes a staff offi- 
cer. See his strappings are new.” 

Fritz passed out of earshot. “Present the com- 
pliments of Lieutenant Manteufel to Colonel Fou- 
chard,” he said to the guard at the Colonel’s tent. 

“Please to step in, sir,” the guard announced in 
a moment. As Fritz stepped forward he heard the 
snap of a carbine coming to a “present.” He 
touched his cap and entered the tent. The Colonel 
was alone. He sat in a comfortable chair at a 
field desk covered with papers. He looked up from 
a map studded with tiny red pins as Fritz ap- 
proached, rose quickly to his feet and' held out his 
hand. Fouchard was a middle sized, wiry looking 
man of fifty who looked older. He wore a faded 
blue blouse with a silver eagle at the collar, khaki 
breeches, boots and spurs. His face was thin and 


THE FORSAKEN 


95 


seared, partly covered with a trimmed iron gray 
pointed beard and a moustache twisted at the ends. 
He fastened a pair of dark rather boyish eyes on 
the visitor. “I am glad to welcome you to the 
fieldi, Monsieur Manteufel. I am happy to greet 
you as a member of my staff. My esteemed friend 
Moreau has wired me regarding yourself. I hope 
we will get on well together.” 

Fritz bowed silently. 

“We dine at seven, immediately after parade. 
You will find my troops less elegantly hut perhaps 
more efficiently uniformed than those at Algiers.” 

“Any immediate orders, sir?” Fritz asked, with 
that stereotyped expression which conveyed the 
idea that any kind of an answer was acceptable. 

“No, you may retire to your quarters. Here, 
orderly, show Lieutenant Manteufel to his quar- 
ters. I hope to see you at dinner, sir.” The Colonel 
sat down. Fritz passed out. 

“A rum old crab. I’ll bet,” he muttered as he fol- 
lowed the orderly to an exceedingly comfortable 
officer’s tent back of the Colonel’s quarters. 

At dinner he met the staff. A group of men, one 
from each branch of the service. The artillery 
officer told ribald stories and told them well. Most 
of the men got drunk at dinner, which was well 
served on a long table under a tent fly. After din- 
ner coffee was brought to the space in front of the 
Colonel’s tent. 


96 


THE FOESAKEN 


“We leave day after tomorrow,” the Colonel an- 
nounced. “Only a squadron of cavalry is going. 
That makes it easy. The infantry and artillery — 
I beg your pardon,” the Colonel put in suddenly as 
he bowed to his artillery officer. “I should have 
said artillery and infantry remain. However, the 
fact that only the cavalry goes makes it a simpler 
proposition. We can do the one hundred and fifty 
miles in three days, or at least no more than four. 
The cattle are. well acclimated. They will stand 
up under the heat. Lieutenant Manteufel, you go 
with me. You will act as my adjutant. I shall 
have no other staff officer.” 

Fritz bowed. “That’s a relief,” he muttered, look- 
ing at the somewhat motley group about him. The 
next tAvo days he spent becoming familiar with his 
new duties. The start was delayed a day because 
of some misunderstanding about hospital supplies. 
Finally on the third day at daybreak the troops 
filed along the road to El Mungar in columns of 
four— one hundred and thirty men, one vivandiere, 
one hundred and fifty horses, three supply wagons 
and an ambulance. The dust soon engulfed them 
and the group of indolent troops watching the de- 
parture lost them from sight and turned to the hum- 
drum life of a railroad terminal encampment. 

For three days they kept steadily going south. 
The heat was worse than they had anticipated. 


THE FORSAKEN 


97 


Fouchard conserved his stock He was an old hand 
at the business. The middle of the day was given 
to rest. The progress was made early and late in 
the day. The third night found them with still 
sixty miles to cover. The next morning they had 
made a rapid dash, the heat being less intense. 
They covered twenty miles between sunrise and 
eleven o’clock. At four o’clock Fouchard ordered 
a fresh start. “We must be on a level with Oglat- 
Tuila,” he said to Fritz as they faced south. 

“If the map is right that makes us about forty 
miles north of Elm Angur,” Fritz answered. 

“Just about. We will make it by eleven tomor- 
row, if nothing happens.” 

They were riding on the left of the squadron, 
which rode in columns of four. The men were in 
good shape. The color-sergeant at the head of the 
second troop was talking gaily to the little dark- 
haired vivandiere. She wore a modification of the 
regimental uniform, and carried the obligatory 
brandy cask swung from the shoulder on her hip. 

Fouchard and Fritz rode on a line with the col- 
ors. The column was proceeding at a walk over 
the undulating sand mounds. The supply wagons 
creaked heavily in the rear. At times a horse broke 
into a trot, causing the trappings to rattle. Sud- 
denly a rifle shot rang out. The trooper to the 
right of the colors stiffened and lunged to the sand. 


98 


THE FOESAKEN 


“Those damned Moroccoans!” Fouchard yelled. 
He swung his mount around. A volley of rifle Are 
tore small lanes into the files. 

“Fours right,” Fouchard yelled. “Dismount, 
don’t get rattled.” A white streak seemed to rise 
from the desert. It became larger, took on form. 

“A thousand of them!” Fouchard cried. “Load. 
Fire. Fire at will. Here they come. Mount men, 
mount, they are going to charge,” The troopers 
had fired a volley at the rapidly approaching line. 
They mounted in haste. The firing startled the 
horses, some broke away from the men and gal- 
loped away. Most of the men gained the saddles. 
The rest threw themselves on the sand and pumped 
their magazines empty. The mounted men drew 
their sabres. The Arabs were quite near now, rid- 
ing furiously into the disordered squadron. Tall, 
thin men they were, with beards and intent eyes. 
For an instant silence fell and then they struck. 
A mighty grunt seemed to come from both sides. 

Fritz awoke from his trance. Fouchard was gal- 
loping back and forth issuing oi’ders which no one 
seemed to hear. The color-sergeant lunged forward, 
carrying the colors to the ground. His horse ripped 
a hoof through the silk fabric. Fritz spurred his 
mare into a gap made by a fallen trooper whose 
b.orse galloped to the rear dragging the man by the 
Rtirru]). In a moment he was in the fight. ' ■ 

The carbine fire lulled and began again on the 


THE FOKSAKEN 


99 


right. The men on the supply wagons and ambu- 
lance became engaged. Fritz felt a certain exulta- 
tion; every time his blade came down he grunted. 
The men about him fought desperately. The col- 
umn began to sag. Fritz had a clear space before 
him for a moment. He drew his pistol and fired 
again and again. 

“Hell and damnation, they fight like demons.” 
He shook the sweat from his eyelashes. “Damn 
them, to be cut down by a mob of stinking niggers.” 
He fired his pistol into a black, rage-distorted face. 
The eye-socket became a blackened smudge, and 
the Arab fell to his horse’s neck, groping blindly 
for a hold and fell. 

“Another problem for my illustrious namesake,” 
he yelled. His mare tossed her head. The slobber 
from her mouth struck him in the eye. The briny 
sting made him wince. For an instant he closed 
his eyes. A heavy jar against his leg made him 
open them at once. A gaunt Arab had lunged his 
mount against him. The mare went to her knees. 
The Arab’s sabre passed over his head. He jabbed 
his own blade into the man’s body, close to the 
crimson sash. Blood and slime oozed over the hilt 
on to the glove. It felt warm where the gauntlet 
met the wriet. The Arab clutched his blouse andi 
dragged him to the ground. The mare reared 
wildly, and at the same time the bridle caught the 
bend of his elbow and pulled Fritz to his feet. As 


100 


THE FORSAKEN 


the mare came down, one iron hoof crushed into the 
prostrate Arab’s sknll. Fritz dropped his pistol, 
slid the bridle to his hand, the mare strained away. 

Fouchard’s deep, strong voice rang out through 
the tumult. “Cut your way out, Manteufel, and 
retreat.” 

“Got a swell chance,” Fritz muttered. He twisted 
the bridle hand into the mare’s mane, found the 
stirrup with his left foot and swung into the saddle. 
The mare wheeled to the rear. He caught a glimpse 
of an open space between two groups of hacking, 
swearing grunting troopers. The wide expanse of 
sand lay before him. He gave a wild, exultant, 
daring yell, sent the spur viciously home into the 
lathered flank and the mare bounded into the space. 
He made a head mollinet at the nearest Arab, slic- 
ing a gash into the greasy neck. “I leave you my 
card,” he yelled. He leaned close to his mare’s 
steaming neck. On she went, on and on and on, 
while thundering hoofs followed. 

“Run, you wind - broken bastard • get of a cur 
breed,” he yelled. “Run as you never ran before. 
Run for the glory of one of your erring blooded 
ancestors.” He drove the spur again ahd again 
into the heaving flank. The mare struggled bravely 
on under the lurid sun, over the bA.kihg sands. TChe 
hoof beats became fainter. He did not look baek. 
As the mare faltered he brought his sabre dOWli O'^ 
her rump. No use, a few yards farther and she 


THE FOESAKEN 


101 


stumbled. A little farther and she went to her 
knees, ploughing into the sand with her red quiv- 
ering nostrils, rolled over on her side, turned her 
big pleading eyes toward the rider and lay still. 

Fritz slipped his feet from the stirrups as she 
fell and landed safely over her head. He watched 
her draw her last breath. “Dead in a bad cause, 
old sport,” he said aloud. The mare had stumbled 
taking the rise of a sand mound and fallen into a 
little valley beyond. He was quite alone. The sun 
was yet high in the bronze colored sky. He had not 
heard his pursuers for some time. He walked to 
the dead mare and found that she had fallen on the 
canteen side. With difficulty he raised the carcass. 
The canteen was uninjured, thanks to the soft sand 
the mare had fallen on. He took a long drink of 
the warmish contents, carefully screwed the cap 
into place and mountedi the sand mound, taking 
care to lie down when he reached the top. Two 
mounted figures were coming toward him. He 
watched them draw nearer. Sbon he made out two 
of his own troopers, one of whom was supporting 
what looked like a bundle on the pummel of his 
saddle. He stood erect and waved his cap. As the 
horsemen drew nearer, he saw that one of the men 
carried the vivandiefe. She seemed limp and help- 
less. A few moments later the men rode up. 

“Cut out after you. Monsieur Lieutenant,” the 
bearer of the vivandiere said. 


102 


THE FOKSAKEN 


Fritz took the girl in his arms and placed her on 
the ground. Her black thick hair covered her eyes, 
enhancing the pallor of the cheek. The colorless 
lips were parted, barely the bosom moved. The 
blouse was thick with clotting blood. Fritz pushed 
the disordered hair from the eyes. They were fixed 
and still. Just then she gave a little gasp, the fea- 
tures contorted into a grimace, the lips drew back 
from the white teeth, composed into placidity and 
she breathed no more. 

“You, too, tried for the glory of some progenitor, 
and you, too, gave up a misplaced life,” Fritz said. 
He laughed his impudent ruthless laugh. “See,” he 
added, bending down, “the cask, the insignia of her 
rank, is unharmed. Half full. I will drink to the 
eternal salvation of her soul.” 

He withdrew the spigot and took a long drink. 

“Bah !” he said. “The stuff is Government 
brandy.” Then to the men who had dismounted 
and stood bareheaded at a respectful distance, 
“Come, comrades, misery equalizes rank. Join me.” 

He held the tiny cask toward them. They shook 
their heads. “Very well,” Fritz went on. “Then 
to business. What is the condition of your cattle? 
Mine, you see, is finished.” He walked over to the 
horses. One, a tall strongly made bay, was in 
fair shape; the other, a lean skate, had a frightful 
wound in the side and stood with its legs apart and 
head down, slowly dripping blood to the sand. 


THE FORSAKEN 


103 


“This one is done for,” Fritz said, indicating the 
wounded horse. “The other will do after a rest. 
The thing is to get water.” He turned toward the 
men. 

“What in hell are you standing there like a pair 
of idiots for? Heven’t you anything to say? Come 
you, Picard,” he called to the nearest man, a tall 
slender youth of twenty, who was still gazing won- 
deringly at the dead girl on the sand. “You had 
gab enough in quarters. Say something.” 

The man touched his visor. “I have nothing to 
say, sir. We found her lying on the groundi. She 
lay a hundred yards back of where you broke 
through. Henri Beauchamp here,” he pointed to 
his companion, “he picked her up and I put her on 
my horse. Henri’s horse was wounded. We rode 
after you. Now she is dead. God rest her soul.” 

“Never mind that now. That’s over. The wo- 
man is dead. Here, cover her with some sand. 
Both of you get to work.” He turned toward the 
injured horse. The beast was going rapidly. 

“That’s right,” he cried irritably, “die, damn you, 
like everything else in this accursed country. That’s 
it. There you go. Piff.” The horse sank to his 
knees as he spoke, lunged forward and lay on its 
side gasping feebly for breath. 

“Here, Picard. Have you a cartridge in your 
belt? This magazine is empty.” He had taken the 


104 


THE FORSAKEN 


carbine from the uninjured horse and opened the 
breech. 

The trooper handed him a cartridge which he 
slipped into the chamber, locked the piece, raised it 
to his shoulder and fired at the beast’s forehead. 
The entire act was done with precision, as though 
only one volitional effort had been made. The 
horse quivered, a tiny spout of blood poured from 
the bullet wound, and then trickled slowly into 
the sand. 

“That one is out of misery. Go on with your 
burial ceremony.” Fritz walked to the side of the 
remaining horse, leaned against its side, removed 
his cap and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of 
his blouse. The men threw the sand over the dead 
girl, using their sabres and hands. Soon a sand 
mound marked the spot. Picard mumbled the 
prayer for the dead. Beauchamp stood bareheaded 
in the sunlight gazing mutely doAvn. He did not 
know how to pray, he was a materialist; also a 
drunkard and a gambler. Still the fair young child 
so alone in the desert made him ill. 

“Come along men,” Fritz broke in. “The world 
is intended for the living. The dead are taken care 
of in another Avay. Picard probably knows how. 
I’m sure I don’t.” 

He took the bay by the bridle and started on. 

“I will lead the horse myself, if you please Mon- 
sieur le Lieutenant,” Picard began. “I am respon- 


THE FORSAKEN 


105 


sible to the quartermaster for him,” he added as 
Fritz looked at him hard. 

“You are responsible to me just at present, my 
friend. Or at least, I’m responsible for him just 
now.” 

“The horse is mine. Monsieur le Lieutenant,” 
Picard said. His face paled. He was talking to 
an officer. “My life is worth something. There 
are Arabs all around us. I did not kill your horse.” 

“Oh! you want to get away and leave us here, 
your pal Beauchamp and myself?” Fritz answered. 
His voice was jeering. He looked more closely at 
Picard. The tall spare figure, the haggard face, 
yet the intent dark eyes. “Well, come and take 
him,” he went on with a smile. He held the bay 
by the bridle with one hand and swung the slimy 
sabre carelessly in the other. “Here, come and take 
the bridle.” He held the bridle toward Picard. 
Picard did not move. The bay looked stupidly into 
the distance. “Take it,” Fritz said tauntingly. 
The words went with a smile which were not good 
to look at. The carbine lay on the sand; Picard 
picked it up. 

“Hoho ! my friend. Going to get dangerous, are 
you?” Fritz went on. “Well, be sure you slip the 
cartridge in correctly.” 

Picard opened the chamber. He did not speak. 
Only his ominous eyes stared into the tormentor’s 
face.. 


106 


THE FORSAKEN 


Fritz did not move. He stood now leaning 
against the bay’s girth — tall, graceful, handsome, 
debonair. He twirled the sabre by its cord, gave 
it a snap and closed his hand around the hilt. 

“It is my horse,” Picard repeated doggedly. “I 
have a right to him.” 

“You said that before,” Fritz broke in. “Well, 
we are not within touch of headquarters now. 
Here,” he said quickly, “I’ll rob this event of its 
military aspect.” He quickly slipped out of his 
blouse, running the right sleeve over the sabre 
blade. “Now I have no insignia which should awe 
you. Come, take the horse.” His superb chest 
with the line down the middle and. the tense cord 
at the shoulder showed through the shirt. Picard 
hesitated and looked at Beauchamp. Beauchamp 
grinned. Picard slid a cartridge into the magazine. 

“Now, throw it into the chamber,” Fritz said 
calmly. His face had set. The left foot went back 
a little, the heel ground into the sand and his left 
hand rested on his hip. Picard raised the carbine. 
That instant Fritz’s sabre flashed through the air 
and the blade buried in Picard’s skull. The car- 
bine fell to the sand. Picard lunged forward on 
his face as his Angers clutched impotently at the 
air. Fritz rolled him over on his back with his 
foot. “The outcome of attacking an officer of the 
Foreign Legion, Beauchamp. Take a lesson from 
this. Never attack an officer. Then, too, the horse 


THE FOKSAKEN 


107 


can carry only us two. You’re no bigger than a 
shrimp. Come, we will go on.’’ 

Beauchamp still remained silent. “Well, do you 
want to die here, cut up by Arabs, or will you 
come?” Fritz asked. Beauchamp pointed to the 
sky. Far off a tiny black spot could be seen. It 
grew larger and larger, circled about, nearer and 
nearer, then darted off and disappeared. 

“He was my bunkie,” Beauchamp said at last. 
“I will cover him.” He began to throw sand over 
the dead man. 

“Those vultures will get through that,” Fritz 
said. “But go on, if it amuses you.” 

He slipped into his blouse, then he wiped the 
sabre oft’ in the sand, unhooked the sabre scabbard, 
threw it away and fastened the bare sabre to the 
hook at his waist by the ring near the hilt. “Take 
his cartridge belt and search his pockets,” he or- 
dered. Beauchamp handed his superior the car- 
tridge belt and a flask of brandy which he extracted 
from the dead man’s hip pocket. The four canteens 
held enough water to fill both of theirs and left a 
liberal drink of water for each besides. 

“If we can get the water for this thoroughbred 
cavalry plug, we stand a chance,” Fritz said. 

He unfastened the bay’s saddle girth, slid the sad- 
dle to the ground and. rubbed the horse down with 
the saddle cloth from his own mare. Then he seated 
himself on the saddle, pulled his cap down over his 


108 


THE FORSAKEN 


eyes and watched Beauchamp covering the dead 
man with the glittering, sliding sand. It was la- 
borious work. The sand trickled into the garments, 
into the boots and ran down between the legs. 
After a time the body and legs were quite covered, 
but the face, with its staring motionless eyes, was 
still directed reprovingly into space. Soon Beau- 
champ let a handful of sand fall on the face. It 
ran into the open mouth, coated the eyeballs, stuck 
in the bloody hair. Fritz sat silently watching. 
Beauchamp hesitated. “Go on, Beauchamp,” he 
saidi. “Don’t show the yellow streak now. You 
wanted to do it, now finish it. I’m waiting here in 
danger of having those lousy turbans find us, that 
you may do a dramatic stunt, but I won’t wait 
forever.” 

“I was thinking, sir,” Beauchamp said slowly, 
“that maybe it would be better for me to say some- 
thing they say for the dead. I have heard it. It 
goes like ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dusti ’ ” 

“Well, you have dust enough here, that’s sure. 
But you’ve said it now, so go on.” 

Beauchamp still hesitated. “I wonder,” he said 
presently, “if maybe, — ^jmu might put a little sand 
on his head. He meant no harm — ” 

“Beauchamp,” Fritz answered, “wlien a man does 
a thing like what happened here just now, it is 
because he has not in his heart what you ask. No, 
go on. This is your stunt.” 


THE FOESAKEN 


109 


Beauchamp did not answer but went on with his 
work. Fritz looked him over more closely. He was 
' small and thin, with light brown hair, deep set pale 
blue eyes, sharp nose, sunken cheek and gaunt, ill- 
made figure. When he spoke his eyes squinted. 
Soon he had completed the work. 

“I am ready. Monsieur le Lieutenant,” he said 
looking over Fritz’s head. Something in the ex- 
pression of his face made Fritz look at him hard. 

“Have you any cartridges in your belt?” Fritz 
asked. 

“No, sir.” 

“Let me have it.” 

Beauchamp handed over the belt. There was one 
cartridge left. “You lied, you little fool,” Fritz 
cried. He placed the shell in the dead man’s belt 
and fastened it around his own waist. The sun 
was getting low, already the shadow of the sand 
mound over which the mare had stumbled in her 
last dying effort to stay the goading spur, crept 
into the little valley with its dead. From some- 
where came more dark spots that grew larger and 
circled and disappeared to come back together and 
circle again and disappear again. 

A faint breeze whirled the sand from the two 
little mounds. The edge of the dead man’s boot 
stuck out at one place. 

“No iifee, Beauchamp,” Fritz said. “They will 
get them, horses and all.” He looked at his com- 


110 


THE FOESAKEN 


panion. The latter gazed silently into space with 
his shifting, squinting eyes. Just then a whole 
flock of vultures obscured for a moment the sun- 
light. The shadow fell on the little valley. A sharp 
gust of wind blew away yet more of the sand over 
the dead man. The Angers of the left hand became 
exposed. Beauchamp looked silently into space and 
Fritz did not like the expression. He stepped to 
Beauchamp’s side and placed his hand on his 
shoulder. 

“The man who wins is the one who takes nothing 
for granted. I will spill the contents of that shad 
belly of yours if I see you make a false move.” 

Beauchamp did not move. 

“Gome, Shrimp,” Fritz went on. “Saddle the 
bay.” 

Beauchamp threw the saddle over the horse’s 
back, buckled it in place, put his foot against the 
horse’s shoulder and pulled the girth tight. 

Fritz mounted, took his companion under the 
shoulder and sat him on the horse’s withers. 

“I have been in the desert for years,” Beauchamp 
began at last. “I know where there is water and 
grass.” 

They started at a walk. The sun was quite near 
the horizon. A large brilliant star challenged the 
dying sunlight. The breeze quickened. As the bay 
sniffed the freshened air, Fritz touched him with 
the spur and he rose to a canter. And! so they 


THE FORSAKEN 


111 


rode on, this strangely-mated pair — one, with the 
vision of his dead biinkie before his eyes ; the other 
bent on escape, not for itself, but because he wanted 
to win at everything he tried and would ride the 
bay under him to the sands, just as he did his own 
mare, or he would cut his companion’s throat with- 
out a quiver to win, even though he lived to be 
killed a little later in a drunken brawl in one of 
the cafes in Algiers. 

Neither spoke, though at times Beauchamp indi- 
cated the way with a gesture. The moon crept over 
the edge of the sand, at first pale, then deepening 
into lustre as darkness descended. Soon the way 
was lighted by its silvery rays. The stars came out 
one by one, until myriads studded the sky as only 
in Algeria the night sky looks. Still they rode on 
and on and on. 

Where is this place, Beauchamp?” 

^^We are almost there now,” came the answer. 

As he spoke the horse’s hoof fall became less 
harsh, and a shadow loomed against the sky. In 
a few monients they reached s6me trees and dis- 
mounted on the grass. Bea:uchamp took the bay by 
the bridle and led him to a pool of water glittering 
in the moonlight. 

'"Unsaddle him. Shrimp,” Fritz said. 

■ do not like that name: sir,” Beauchamp said, 
quietly. 


112 


THE FOESAKEN 


“You’re damned fastidious. Nothing is bad after 
you get used to it.” 

Beauchamp silently unsaddled the bay. 

“Hobble him with that neck halter.” 

Beauchamp did as he was bid without a word. 

Fritz seated himself on the grass with the car- 
bine beside him. Beauchamp remained standing. 

“Sit down, Shrimp, and here, take some of this 
rot-gut,” Fritz said presently. He handed him the 
flask of brandy. 

“I don’t care for any brandy, sir.” 

Fritz took a drink himself and followed it with 
water from the canteen. 

They remained silent for a time. At last Beau- 
champ spoke; 

“It is eighty miles to the nearest relief,” he be- 
gan slowly. “There is not another spring between 
here and Bou Aroua. The bay cannot carry us 
both. We have nothing to eat. One of us must 
stay behind.” He stopped. 

“Have you a cigarette. Shrimp?” Fritz asked. 

Silence fell again. The bay browsed peacefully 
at the grass near the edge of the pool 

“Those damned niggers would get the man who 
stayed behind,” Fritz began. 

“Yes.” 

“They might get the one who tries to get away,” 
Fritz added. 

“Yes.” 


THE FORSAKEN 


113 


“They will stop here, some of them by sunrise. 
They will not come here tonight. They wonld fear 
that a lot of us are here.” 

“Yes.” 

“Say ‘sir.’ you damned monkey!” Fritz burst 
out suddenly. 

Beauchamp did not answer. 

The moonlight made the scene clearly visible. 
Beauchamp made a silhouette against the sky. 

Fritz pushed the carbine away with bis feet. 

“Monsieur le Lieutenant,” Beauchamp began, 
“yon could shoot me as I stand. I am not fooling 
myself. One of us is going to die tonight — now, 
right away. You killed my bunkie.” His voice 
broke a little. “I ask you, for the honor of a French 
soldier, to let try to avenge him.” 

“You me," -^at you will fight me. Hell, you 
haven’t a shoT^^' n earth.” 

“I ask it for the honor of a French soldier — from 
one soldier to another.” 

“You know damned well I wouldn’t shoot you. 
Very well.” 

Fritz rose and stood now opposite his compan- 
ion. The latter looked steadily up at his oppo- 
nent’s massive figure. “Here,” Fritz said, “take 
my sabre, it’s longer than yours. I will use yours.” 
They both laid their sabres on the giound and si- 
lently stripped to the waist. Each picked up a 
sabre, Fritz taking the shorter. Neither spoke. 


114 


THE FORSAKEN 


They stepped out into the moonlight away from the 
shadow of the stunted trees. Beauchamp took the 
initiative, touched lightly his opponent’s blade and 
attacked). For once Fritz ceased his goading. 
Beauchamp attacked as only an avenger can, 
viciously, persistently, indeed, so fiercely that Fritz 
stepped back. Beauchamp’s face took on a sneer. 
That was his bane. Fritz took a parry in second, 
returned the point and, just as he had foretold, 
spilled Beauchamp’s entrails on the sand. As 
Beauchamp reeled for an instant, again the blade 
glistened in the moonlight and crashed into the 
skull. Fritz watched him claw the sand as he 
strained to get up. He rose almost to his knees, 
then lunged forward and lay still. 

The bay limped timidly forward with his hobbled 
legs and sniffed at the prostrate form. Fritz took 
him by the mane and led him back to the shadow 
of the trees. Then he walked to the dead man and 
found his cigarettes, lighted one, and after putting 
on his shirt and blouse, sat down with his back 
to a tree. It Avas getting cooler. He sat and 
smoked. “Eighty miles to Bou Aroua. That plug 
will never do it with my weight in a day,” he mut- 
tered. He took account of stock. There were the 
carbine, for which he had only two shells, which 
were in Picard’s belt, his sabre, two canteens, the 
flask of brandy quite full and the vivandiere’s cask 
half full, but no food. He went on smoking. The 


THE FOESAKEN 


115 


night air became chill, making him shiver. He un- 
rolled the blanket attached to the saddle and 
wrapped it around his shoulders, took a drink from 
the flask, followed it with some water from the pool 
and went to sleep. 

When he awoke a gray streak in the East 
marked the dawning day. He rose, took a drink 
from the flask, bathed his face in the pool, made 
the bay drink, rolled the brandy cask in the blanket 
and fastened it to his saddle. Then he saddled the 
bajf, fastened the sabre to his side, filled the two 
canteens Avith water, blew his breath into the bay’s 
nostrils, swung into the saddle and rode north, 
aslant the rising sun. 

The dead man lay face doAvn on the sand. Fritz 
shrugged his shoulders as he rode by. As the bay 
shied, he pulled him back impatiently. “You are 
working for the living noAV. Go on.” He drove the 
spur into the side away from the dead man and gal- 
loped on. 

The sun rose higher and higher, and with it came 
the heat. The bay stuck bravely to his work and 
mile after mile passed under the galloping hoofs — 
up over the sand mounds, across the little valleys 
and on again. At times Fritz let him blow out. 
Once he dismounted, unsaddled and rubbed the 
sweating hide with the saddle cloth, let it dry in 
the sun, remounted and went on. Not a living 
thing met his eyes. When he walked his mount he 


116 


THE FOKSAKEN 


took a drink from the canteen. At times he drew 
on the brandy. At noon the bay began to flag. 
Fritz dismounted and looked him over. The nos- 
trils were red, the flanks covered with sweat. 
Where the bridle touched the neck a soapy lather 
had formed and run down the heaving chest to the 
knees. The whites of the eyes were blood-shot. 
The tongue hung out of the side of the mouth, cov- 
ered with a dark gummy mass. 

“Well, he’ll have to go to the end. If I rest him 
he will be no better off. I guess I’ll force him as 
far as he’ll go.” He looked about. Not a tree, not 
a bush, not a leaf in sight, only the never-ending 
expanse of lurid sand. He rubbed the bay’s dry 
tongue with his Angers moistened from the can- 
teen. The horse licked at his wrist. He led him 
by the bridle for a space. He judged he had cov- 
ered half the distance to Bou Aroua. He had never 
been there, but knew there was a convent at the 
edge of the desert located at the place Beuchamp 
had mentioned. He drank again from the flask, 
unbuckled the blanket and refilled the flask with 
brandy. The bay began to limp. A shoe had be- 
come loose. With some difficulty he removed the 
iron rim from the hoof. The hoof felt hot. The 
bay held the hoof off the sand. He pulled her for- 
ward by the bride. She was still lame. “And an- 
other forty miles to go.” He took another drink 
of brandy. The alcohol mounted to his head. 


THE FOKSAKEN 


117 


Twenty-four hours without food began to tell. The 
blazing sun, the lurid sand made him dizzy. He 
steadied himself against the bay. The bay stopped 
and turned his big eyes toward him. He swung into 
the saddle. 

“You’ll have to go,” he muttered, driving the spur 
home. The bay closed up for an instant and then 
galloped lamely on. The pace was slower now, yet 
the beast struggled on — the bridle loose, the head 
getting nearer the ground. Fritz pushed him on. 
After a time the limp became grosser, so that the 
rider maintained his seat with difficulty. Yet he 
covered another ten miles. The bay pulled up 
standing on three legs. The goading spur only 
made him quiver. 

Fritz dismounted. “You’re a sorry looking 
plug,” he said. He unswung the carbine, slipped 
a shell into the chamber and shot him through the 
head, then he threw the carbine away, unfastened 
the blanket with its cask of brandy and emptied 
one of the canteens down his throat, the other he 
swung from his shoulder and trudged north. After 
a time he reached a good sized sand mound which 
threw a shadow. He lay down in the shade and 
took a drink of brandy and water. The sun was 
less intense. He fell asleep. When he awakened 
his eyes met the stars. The moon was climbing 
toward the dome. He got up. “The devil,” he mut- 
tered as he staggered, “thirty miles to do. Got to 


118 


THE FOESAKEN 


brace up.” He took a long drink of brandy, picked 
up the blanket and trudged on. His mouth be- 
came parched. Although he tried to conserve the 
contents of the canteen, shaking elicited an omi- 
nously increasing hollowness. His tremendous 
strength began to dilute. “Damn the thing any- 
way,” he said audibly, “I believe I’m pegging out.” 
He repeatedly drank from the brandy flask. Yet 
he made ten miles in three hours. Still he kept on. 
The blanket began to irk him. He unrolled it from 
the cask and threw it away. The cask he fastened 
to his canteen strap. His watch read midnight. 
“I can make another ten miles before daybreak,” 
he thought. He looked up at the starlit sky. “The 
lip of the dipper points to the North Star,” he mut- 
tered. Then with a smile, “That old dope of a 
tutor in astronomy was of some use. Here’s to his 
health.” He drank long from the brandy flask, 
emptying it. 

“No use to carry two rum receptacles,” he 
laughed, with that uncontrollable tendency to be 
facetious in disregard of conditions, and threw the 
empty flask toward the moon. “Some lousy Arab 
will get the glint of your silvery rays on this some 
night and think he’s found a topaz,” he laughed. 
“Then he’ll know he’s only found the cause of the 
curse of nations,” he added. “Well, go along Fritz, 
old sport.” He loosened his blouse about the neck 
and tightened the belt at the waist, the cartridge 


THE FOESAKEN 


119 


belt he threw away. Once more he set his great 
square shoulders and trudged on over the shifting 
sands, with his heavy booted feet leaving a trail 
soon to be obliterated by the vagrant winds. 

The moon slid to the Avestern horizon and dark- 
ness closed gradually in. A faint streak of light 
brightened the edge of his field of vision and spread 
rapidly out like an enormous fan. He halted, drew 
a long deep breath and drank a mouthful of water. 
He had not rested since midnight. He knew his 
pace well enough. “Well done, Dev, old boy. That 
ten miles deserves peaceful slumber on the right 
forearm of the queen of courtesans. Camille, my 
lying, deceiving rip of hell, I drink to you and 
your allure.” He let the brandy run from the cask 
into his mouth. The pink of the nearing sun crept 
into the sky. “See, Camille, that is the pink of your 
lips.” The brandy rose to his brain. The pinkish 
hue deepened into crimson. “And that is the car- 
mine which comes when I kiss them into life, your 
rouge-pot notwithstanding,” he added with a loud 
thick laugh. “Fritz, you’re drunk. Come, old blaz- 
ing, glittering maker of crops and reaper of dead 
soldiers, shove your luminous disc into space. I 
drink a welcome to you.” 

The sun rose majestically over the horizon. He 
let the cask slip to his hip as he wiped his lips with 
the back of the gauntlet. He raised his hand to 
his visor, gazed defiantly into the increasing sun- 


120 


THE FOKSAKEN 


light, waved his hand at the sand and trudged on. 
The pace was slower, however. Several times he 
stumbled. Once he caught the spur of the opposite 
instep and tore a hole through the boot into the 
flesh. He stopped and examined the hurt. Blood 
oozed through the tom leather. 

“I ought to take them off,” he mused. “Yet I 
will walk into that bunch of isolated worshippers 
with glove and spur or know the reason why.” He 
rose, took another drink of brandy, followed it 
with a little water and started on. As he raised 
his hand he saw the dome of a building encroaching 
on the sky. The sun caused a tiny glittering spot 
on its top. “Insignia of my namesake’s opponent, 
I send you greeting. Glitter on and lead me at 
least where they have things to go into the stomach, 
if not the soul.” 

It was yet a good ten miles to Bou Aroua. His 
knowledge of distances caught from his experience 
told him that. He became faint again. The wound 
in his foot hurt him sorely. “I suppose if that bay 
plug had a carbine now he’d want to put me out of 
misery.” He was actually drunk now, but plodded 
on, dry lipped, haggard, dizzy, but determined. A 
mile farther on the sabre caught between his legs, 
throwing him headlong on his face. He rose blow- 
ing the sand from his teeth. “I know a dozen 
boulevardiers who would give a small fortune for 
my thirst,” he mumbled thickly. He unscrewed 


THE FOESAKEN 


121 


the cap of the canteen and emptied it down his 
throat and threw it away. There was a little 
brandy left in the cask. Two miles farther on he 
emptied that too, threw it into the air and split it 
open with his sabre. The little red cross on the 
cask head caught the sunlight. He picked up the 
circular piece of wood and scaled it across the 
sands. It struck on the edge, rolled along for a 
distance and lay still. He laughed a boyish gleeful 
laugh and staggered incoordinately on. 


CHAPTER X. 


By noon he lunged into the deserted courtyard 
of the convent at Bou Aroua, looked helplessly 
about, and opened the first door he saw. The rich 
full notes of an organ greeted him. For a moment 
the darkened space made him blind. When he 
could see, his eyes fell on the figure of a girl seated 
at the organ. Her back was toward him, the rigid 
pose of the head suggested fixed attention, yet was 
not the immovable vitalized posture of the trans- 
ported. As he stepped forward his heavy boot 
struck the fioor and the spur grated harshly on the 
polished wood: The player turned toward the light. 
The brilliant Algerian sun shone full on motionless 
eyeballs. 

“God ! she is blind,” Fritz whispered. The intent, 
placid, wondering expression arrested the next step. 
She reached out a slender tapering hand toward 
where the sound came from. “You are a stranger 
here. Your footfall is heavy and tinged with a new 
sound. Tell me, who are you, and why do you come 
here.” She spoke softly as though the sound of 
her voice needed never to carry far, as though she 
spoke only to what was close to her. 

Fritz did not move. “What an affliction, yet how 
beautiful she is,” he thought. He half turned to- 


THE FORSAKEN 


123 


ward the door, hesitated and faced again toward 
the organ. Better to have turned on and gone. 
Better to have staggered his drunken body on alone, 
on into the heat and thirst of the North African 
desert, better to have dragged his accursed appe- 
tites on and on, till he, too, sank down, to be 
buried forever under the ever-shifting sands. He 
felt suddenly dizzy, and resting his hand on the 
altar rail, stepped heavily toward the front pew. 
The girl still held her hand out, as though groping 
in the dark. The hand followed him, the fingers 
bent as though beckoning. The gown was open at 
the neck, the white skin glistened in the sunlight. 
The bosom fell and rose with the breath. The 
momentary syncope left him. He sank down on 
the bench. The sabre rattled against the wood- 
work. He rested his chin on his clenched hand, the 
elbow on the back of the bench. 

“I am a soldier of France,” he began at last. 
“Lost and in need of help. I have come for miles 
and miles and miles again, under the blazing sun, 
under the cold distant stars. The North Star led 
me here. My comrades are dead.” The girl put her 
hand to her neck. 

“Your voice is strange to me,” she answered. “I 
have never heard a voice like that before. The note 
is in my organ, here in the middle.” She turned 
and struck a full rich note on the keyboard. “Your 
comrades are dead,” she said suddenly, “Dead out 


124 


THE FORSAKEN 


there in the desert?” Her head bent forward and 
the lips moved. 

Fritz watched her silently. “Can you do a chord 
from Asher’s Ave Maria?” he asked, as her hands 
rested on the keyboard 

She struck it at once with rare accuracy, merg- 
ing the deeper notes well into the treble. 

“Go on,” he said as she rested the music for a 
moment. “I have heard only the blare of the bugle 
and the beat of the tambour for, it seems, an 
eternity.” 

The fumes from the brandy were leaving him. 
The overwhelming fatigue, dulled for a time, re- 
asserted itself and the burning thirst made his 
mouth feel like a furnace. “Give me some water,” 
he asked with a shade of tremor in his voice. “A 
lot of water.” 

She rose quickly and felt her way toward the 
door. As she passed him he drew his dust-covered 
boots back that she might not fall, and steadied 
her with his begauntleted hand on her smooth white 
arm. 

“Come,” she said in the same faint, toneless 
voice. “We will find water.” She led him out of 
the door across the dusty court to the main build- 
ing. He still held her arm. “I will wait here,” 
he said, releasing her at the door. A moment later 
a gray-gowned nun emerged with a jar of water. 
Fritz stood leaning one hand against the well, the 


THE FOESAKEN 


125 


other resting on the hilt of his sabre, the shoulders 
bent forward. The nun came close to him. 

“You are fatigued, Monsieur le Lieutenant,” she 
said gently, glancing at the tarnished little bar at 
the collar of his blouse. She handed him the jar. 
He raised it toward his mouth, clicked his heels 
together, bowed slightly toward the wondering nun, 
and drank deep and full. The nun noted the 
tanned muscular neck, streaked with sweaty dust, 
the deep blue eyes, the heavy eyebrow, the massive 
heaving chest. Her eyes fell to his boots, blood and 
dust covered the one. She gave a little cry. 

“You are wounded. Monsieur.” She stepped 
closer and placed her hand on his arm. 

“No,” he said harshly, “it is only a scratch.” He 
reeled, however, and kept erect only by steadying 
himself against the wall. The blind girl stood 
mutely in the door frame. 

“Come,” the nun said, “you must have rest.” She 
led him into the darkened corridor, along a long 
wall, and opened the door of a large room situated' 
at one end of a wing of the convent “You will find 
water and soap. I will send food to you soon.” 

The room was large and cool, furnished with an 
iron bed, a dresser, a chair and a wash-stand. A 
crucifix hung over the bed. Fritz threw himself 
on the bed, he wanted rest more than anything in 
the world, and soon fell into deep, restful sleep. 
A knocking at the door awakened him. The nun 


THE POKSAKEN 


12G 


who had brought him the water was standing in 
the hall. She held a tray of food and a bottle of 
claret. “I tried to make you answer, Monsieur,” 
she explained. “You did not hear me. I thought 
you might need sleep most, so let you alone. Now 
you must eat.” 

Fritz took the tray and refreshed himself with 
the cold meat, bread and claret. Then he removed 
his clothing, washed the wound in his instep, 
dressed it with the napkin from the tray, washed 
himself at the basin, found one of Beauchamp’s 
cigarettes and let the smoke rise lazily in the still, 
half-lighted room. It thinned out into long taper- 
ing clouds. One of them rose, moved by a current 
of air, floated slowly over the bed, grazed the cru- 
cifix and merged into the air. He watched its guid- 
less drift. A® it touched the crucifix he laughed, 
his old gay, impudent laugh. Some one knocked 
at the door. 

“Come in.” 

A tall slender priest stepped in. Fritz rose 
somewhat stiffly. “I have the honor to greet you, 
sir,” he said with that veneer of politeness he knew 
so well to clothe himself with. 

“I arrived last night,” the priest said, looking 
critically at the soldier. “I came from Benoud. I 
come here at long intervals. Sister tells me you 
are wounded. I am somewhat of a physician. I 
would be glad to be of service to you.” He had 


THE FORSAKEN 


127 


come closer and now stooped down to look at the 
bandaged foot. 

“It is only a spur scratch, thank you. I have 
dressed it.” The priest rose. “You must have 
more air in here. It is close and stuffy.” He 
walked to the window, opened it and pulled up the 
Venetian blind. “The sun is getting low. The 
heat is less intense,” he added. The strong light 
fell on his black robed figure. He was extremely 
slender and had his shoulders not stooped, would 
have been quite as tall as Fritz. The sunlight fell 
on thick gray hair, a leathery complexion, deeply 
marked with scars of small-pox, a thin hooked nose, 
wide, well-formed lips, and glorious dark eyes. He 
smiled as he turned toward the room, displaying 
white, even, strong teeth. 

Fritz had remained standing. “I am Friederich 
Manteufel,” he began, “first lieutenant of cavalry. 
Sixty-ninth Regiment, Second Battalion, stationed 
mostly at Algiers.” The priest had started to ap- 
proach the soldier as he began to speak. When he 
told his name, he stopped, brought his hand to his 
lips, and stood gazing fixedly into the other’s eyes. 

“Has my fame reached even here, into the desert, 
that you need stand aghast like that. Monsieur le 
Abbe?” Fritz asked. 

“It is a queer name, sir,” the priest answered, 
now quite calm again. 

“Oh! I see,” Fritz answered. “My pals call me 


128 


THE FOESAKEN 


‘Dev.’ I forgot, it must be a bit disconcerting to 
meet a presumably fabled enemy face to face. But 
come, tell me. Whom have I the honor of address- 
ing?” 

“I am the Abbe Herrara, in the service of God.” 

“Herrara, that is a Spanish name. You are a 
Jesuit, sir?” 

“Yes, I am a Jesuit. My parishioners are mostly 
Arabs. I teach them the way our Great Eedeemer 
went. I have little intercourse with white men. 
That accounts for my thoughtlessness in keeping 
you standing so long. Pray be seated.” 

Fritz sat on the edge of the bed and waved the 
priest to the chair. 

“I judge from your appearance, Monsieur le 
Abbe, that you have a razor and that sort of thing 
with you. If you will let me have an opportunity 
to use your toilet set I will be obliged. I have 
sufficient of the Parisian habit left to want to be 
presentable, even to nuns. That reminds me. Who 
is the blind girl I saw in the chapel? If the nuns 
had her affliction I fancy I would not care how’ I 
looked.” The priest listened quietly to the young 
man’s rambling talk. He did not answer at once. 

“Some mystery of the church, is it? Well, if 
that’s the case, count on my discretion,” Fritz 
laughed. His old method of goading oozed from 
him. 

“Pardon me. Monsieur le Lieutenant,” the priest 


THE FOKSAKEN 


129 


answered, with a sudden glitter in his sombre quiet 
eyes, “the church needs no discretion shown. The 
girl is a ward of the church. Indeed, my ward.” 
His stooped shoulders straightened for an instant 
as he said it. “She is an orphan, sorely afflicted. 
She spends her sightless life here playing the organ 
and living at peace, getting ready for her greater 
life, where she will see only the beautiful. Her 
dark days here mean a glorious awakening.” 

“She has my best wishes, I’m sure, sir. Will 
you smoke?” 

“Do not let me rob you. Monsieur le Lieutenant. 
I have a number of cigarettes in my bag. You, I 
fancy, are not overstocked. I will send you a 
supply with my shaving set.” 

“I suppose it is not in accord with the etiquette 
of the desert to ask strangers questions,” Fritz be- 
gan. “I will tell you, however, how and why I 
came here.” 

“It is not the habit of the serAmnts of God to ask 
questions,” the priest answered. “We are ready 
to hear what our children tell us. I will be glad to 
hear your tale, and perhaps aid you.” 

The sonorous notes of the organ came in through 
the open window. 

The priest rose. “They have late vespers here 
because of the heat. Will you join us in the chapel. 
Monsieur le Lieutenant, or would you prefer to 
rest? You still look fatigued.” 


130 


THE FORSAKEN 


“I will rest for a time longer, if you please.” 

The prelude of Bach set to au Ave Maria by 
Gounod stole into the chamber, borne on the quick- 
ening breeze from the desert. The player merged 
the obligato witb singular skill. 

“I will send my man to you with what you need,” 
the priest said. The peculiar quality of his voice 
made an accord with an accentuated note in the 
theme from the organ. He walked to the door. 
“I will come back later and hear your tale. God 
be with you.” He raised a slender white hand — 
the hand of a student, which is gloved when it goes 
with the tanned cheek. 

Fritz bowed. “I will ask for something to drink 
while you are gone. It will no doubt be waiting 
for you when you come. Au revoir.” He waved 
his hand with his easy attractive grace. The priest 
bowed on the door sill, looking like a ghost from 
the anteroom of the Vatican. 

Fritz lighted a fresh cigarette and walked to the 
window. The organist went on into a sonata of 
Chopin’s. A double file of gray gowned nuns 
crossed the court yard and slowly entered the 
chapel. In a moment the priest followed and the 
music ceased. Fritz threw' the stump of his cigar- 
ette into the yard and watched the smoke mingle 
wdth the tiny sand cloud raised by the impact as it 
struck. “That girl has the soul of a musician in 
her fingers — the compensation of nature,” he said 


THE FOESAKEN 


131 


half aloud. He turned to the room. A tall thin 
Arab stood in the door. He held in his hand a 
bundle done up in a towel. 

“Come in, oh, pest of the desert,” Fritz called 
with a laugh. “You are from the man of God, are 
you?” 

The Arab drew nearer. “I am the servant of the 
servant of God,” he answered in excellent French. 
“I am to serve you.” 

“Very well,” Fritz answered, not in the least 
abashed. The Arab placed the contents of his bun- 
dle on the dresser. Poured water into the wash 
basin and made things ready with the skill of a 
French valet. “I wonder if they have a Louis in 
Arabia,” Fritz mused. Then aloud, “Kub up these 
boots, and here ” as he quickly disrobed, “brush up 
this faded b’ :e.'’ The Arab took the clothing and 
disappeared. Fritz shaved and washed. The Arab 
had brought a little “first-aid” package. In it Fritz 
found some plaster. He took the napkin off his 
foot. “That shows how sterile this damned desert 
is,” he said with a smile. “It hasn’t bugs enough 
to infect a wound.” He sealed the tiny holes in his 
instep with a strip of plaster. 

The Arab brought back the clothes. “Anything 
more?” he asked, after rearranging the room. 

“Yes, get some claret and water, and bring me 
some writing material.” The Arab withdrew. 
Fritz completed his attire, lowered the Venetian 


132 


THE FORSAKEN 


blind, and threw himself down on the bed. In a 
few moments he was fast asleep. When he awoke it 
was dark. For a moment he did not know where 
he was. He rose, groped about, and knocked over 
the little table in the centre of the room. The next 
moment the Arab stood in the door with an oil 
lamp in his hand. 

“What time is it?” Fritz asked. 

“Eight o’clock, sir. Will you have the claret 
now?” 

“Yes, and tell the Abbe Herrara I would be glad 
to see him.” Soon the priest came in, followed by 
the Arab with the claret, a gourd of water and the 
writing material. He placed the tray on the table. 
“I will bi’ing you some food soon,” he said, and dis- 
appeared. 

The priest pulled up the Venetian blind. The 
moonlight flooded the room. “Sit in your chair,” 
the priest said. “I will stand here by the window. 
The moon on the sand is glorious.” 

“I was with the Fouchard relief column,” Fritz 
began. “ We were a squadron of cavalry. For 
three days all went well. On the fourth day we 
were attacked by a large number of Arabs. I don’t 
know how many. We were cut to pieces. As you 
see, I managed to get away. Whether anyone else 
did or not, I don’t know.” 

“There are dead soldiers out there in the desert,” 
the priest put in. “God have mercy on their souls.” 


THE FORSAKEN 


133 


“Well, 1 guess the vultures have got their bodies 
by this time. However, that is a small sacrifice 
compared to the advantages accrued to the true 
faith.” 

“The way of the cross has ever been a thorny 
one. Monsieur le Lieutenant.” 

“I’m in the soldier business as a diversion, Mon- 
sieur le Abbel However, I want to get word to 
headquarters at Ath Sefra. When Jean Baptiste 
Moreau, our esteemed department commander, 
hears of this there will be enough dead Arabs in 
one spot to fertilize a new oasis. I will write a re- 
port at once. The journey to Benoud can be made 
in one night with a good horse. From there my 
report can be wired to Ath Sefra. They will send 
a detachment with fresh cattle for me. What can 
you do?” 

“I am leaving tonight,” the priest answered, “for 
my home. I will take your report. It can be made 
by daylight. Write your report. See,” he added, 
pointing out of the window, “already our horses are 
ready.” 

Fritz looked out. Two horses were tied to an 
iron ring in the wall of the main building. They 
both looked as though distance was a small matter 
to them. The Arab came in with food. 

“I will wait until you eat. Monsieur le Lieuten- 
ant,” the priest said politely. 

“Thank you, I am hungry.” Fritz ate with the 


134 


THE FOESAKEN 


speed of the soldier, shoved the tray aside and let 
the pen run rapidly over the paper. The priest 
stood yet at the window looking out on the never- 
ending sand. 

“Here, Monsieur le Abbe,” Fritz said, after a 
time. He handed the priest the report. “I will 
do myself the honor of seeing you off.” He held the 
door open as the priest passed out and followed to 
the court-yard. As they approached the horses the 
Arab stepped up. 

“When you get there,” Fritz said, “go to the tele- 
graph station. Tell the telegraph operator to send 
the wire through at once.” 

The two men swung into the saddle. The toneless 
voice of the organist came from the door. “You 
are leaving. Father?” it said^ The next moment the 
girl stood on the threshold with the bright white 
moonlight shining full on her sightless eyeballs. 

“Yes, child,” the priest answered gently. “God 
keep you.” 

Fritz removed his cap. The motion caused the 
priest to look into his face. “If you were strong 
enough I would lend you my horse,” Monsieur le 
Lieutenant,” he said. “A1 Easchid could go with 
you.” 

“That would not hasten matters,” Fritz an- 
swered. “It might save the detachment forty miles, 
but I guess it will do them no harm to have the 
experience, and anyway, the Government ought to 


THE FOESAKEN 


135 


pay some tribute to the survivor of that mess. No, 
go ahead.’’ Silently the priest turned his head and 
rode into the moonlit desert. 

The girl still stood in the doorway listening to 
the fading hoofbeats. 

^^What is your name?” Fritz asked her. 

^^My name is Leah, sir.” 

^^Leah — the forsaken,” Fritz whispered. ^^She is 
well named.” 

The girl’s acute ears had caught the words. 
am not forsaken. I am waiting, sir,” she answered. 

Silence fell. The mysterious awe-inspiring si- 
lence of the desert. 

prayed for your dead comrades today in the 
chapel,” the toneless voice began. She raised her 
white hands to her breast. ^^They are at peace with 
the Lord.” 

^^How long have you been here?” Fritz asked. 

Always.” 

^^Always in these walls, always under this blazing 
sky, under the silent stars. Great God.” 

-^^They must be beautiful,” the girl answered sim- 
ply. ^^The sisters tell me they are beautiful. But 
though I cannot see them, I can feel them. I feel 
the hot dry sand, the sun, the wind, the night air. 
The wind speaks to me. Everything speaks to me. 
I answer with my organ. Sometimes the simoom 
comes, the sisters pray then for the men in the 
desert. I play for them on my organ.” 


136 


THE FORSAKEN 


“How old are you, Mademoiselle LeaF?” Fritz 
asked. 

“I am eighteen. Your voice has changed. It is 
not the same note. Are you thinking of your dead 
comrades?” 

Fritz did not answer. 

“They are at peace with the Lord. You must not 
mourn them. God loves them more than you did.” 

“And you have no one but the sisters to look 
after you?” 

“Oh! yes. Father Herrara comes, and at times 
men come who are going into the desert.” She 
moved nearer to him and stood now quite close. 
Her hair reached quite to his ear. He noted the 
round arm, the full white neck, the beautiful calm 
symmetrical face, the straight eyebrow and the 
wealth of light brown hair. “What an accursed 
outrage,” he thought. 

“Hark !” she said suddenly. “I hear hoof-beats. 
A single horse. Do you hear it?” 

He strained his ears. “No, I cannot hear them.” 

“They are coming nearer. Listen, can you hear 
them now?” 

“Yes.” 

They waited, the hoof sounds came nearer and 
nearer. Soon the horseman appeared, a dark image 
before the silver sand. A few moments later Abbe 
Herrara rode up. “I have changed my mind,” he 
said. “A1 Raschid has gone on with your report. I 


THE FOKSAKEN 


137 


will stay here until tomorrow.” He dismounted 
and led his horse away. 

“His voice was strange to me,” the girl said. 
“Good night, Monsieur,” she added, holding out her 
hand toward the door frame. 

Fritz reached out, took the hand in his, bent down 
and kissed the white smooth wrist. The girl gave 
a little cry, but did not withdraw her hand. 

“I will play that tomorrow in the chapel,” she 
murmured. The voice had an added sound in it. 

The priest stepped up. “ Come, Monsieur le 
Lieutenant, we will have our claret and water.” 

“I am at your disposition. Monsieur le Abbe.” 

The girl felt her way into the darkness of the 
convent. 


CHAPTER XI. 


The sun stole toward the western rim. A faint 
breeze stirred the fringe on the edge of the window 
curtain. Friederich Manteufel rose lazily, stretched 
his long arms and pulled up the blinds. The sound 
from the organ greeted him. A little smile dis- 
turbed the corners of his mouth. He slipped into 
his blouse, took up his cap and stepped toward the 
door. A knock arrested his footsteps. 

“Come in.” 

The Abbe Herrara came in. “There is still no 
news from Ath Sefra,” he said. “No, but I fancy 
something will turn up tonight or tomorrow. You 
could have my horse if you are anxious to get back.” 

“You seem to be anxious to have me start. Mon- 
sieur le Abbe. You have alluded to means of trans- 
portation for me with a persistence which justifies 
the conclusion that you would like me to leave.” 

The priest sat down. “I take the liberty of light- 
ing a cigarette,” he answered in his deep sqft voice. 

“You will excuse me. Monsieur le Abbe, I am 
stepping out for a moment.” 

“You are going again to the chapel? It is hot 
there, won’t you sit here with me for a while?” 

“No, thank you. I prefer to go to the chapel.” 

A grayish hue crept over the priest’s tanned 


THE FOESAKEN 


139 


cheek. “I am the custodian of her soul,” he said, 
his voice yet even and soft. Only the great lumi- 
nous eyes took on a sombre glow. 

A frown came on Fritz’s face. “The custody of 
the church is nothing to me. You will permit me to 
state that I am going to the chapel. You have ob- 
truded yourself into my affairs for three days. If 
it pleases me to enjoy this child I will do so irre- 
spective of your meddling.” 

“She is a pure child. I have hoped to save her 
from contamination. Since you came here she has 
changed. Can you not spare this poor, blind child? 
Think of her affliction.” He raised his hand as 
Fritz opened his mouth to answer. “You are a 
man of another world. Soon you go back into it 
again. I ask you to leave her with her peace and 
hope. Already her mind is disturbed. I have seen 
more than you think. It would be a sin to have her 
know of things that she cannot see.” 

“I shall offer you no explanation of my conduct 
nor my intent. You do not extend a directorate 
over jber, at least you won’t as far as I am con- 
cerned. You kept her for eighteen years buried in 
this God-forsaken desert. Where did you get the 
right to do this? This is a greater sin. But we are 
talking to no end. You will excuse me.” He 
stepped toward the door. 

The priest rose quickly and stood between Fritz 
and the door. “One moment,” ke began in a low 


140 


THE FOESAKEN 


\ olce, so low that Fritz leaned forward to hear him 
better. “I saw you hold her in your arms last 
night. I saw her blind eyes close. I saw her lips 
rise to yours. I saw her body cling to you. Mon- 
sieur le Lieutenant, take my warning. You are on 
the brink of a calamity.” 

“Spying, were you? Well, you saw something 
for your pains. Stand back from that door. I will 
go to her and I will take her away from here, to 
any place I please, and you can draw the circle of 
your church around her all you like. You are not 
a Eichelieu of the desert ; at least you have not an 
effeminate French king to play with. Stand back.” 
For a moment silence fell into the convent room. 

The priest stared into the soldier’s eyes. “I warn 
you.” 

“Hark!” Fritz broke in. “Hoof beats.” He 
stepped to the window. “See,” he went on. “See! 
there they come. My soldiers, my comrades of the 
Foreign Legions. I will take her tonight, out under 
the Algerian stars. And I will kiss her beautiful 
full lips again and again.” 

“Stop,” the priest cried. There was a genuine 
menace in his voice. “You do not know who she 
is ” 

“I don’t care a damn who she is. She’ll be mine 
from now on.” The priest stepped closer to Fritz, 
who stood still at the window. A calvacade of troop- 
ers were galloping over the sand toward the con- 


THE FORSAKEN 


141 


vent. One of them waved his hand as they drew 
nearer. Fritz gave an answering shout. “Ride into 
the court, sergeant, and dismount your men. You 
see there are nine, eight privates and a sergeant. 
They will make a formidable escort to my beautiful 
Leah and myself. Come, accept the situation like 
a sport. You know I’ll do it anyway.” 

“There must be a gentle cord in you,” the priest 
began slowly. He stood with his back to the door, 
the arms spread out as though by sheer force he 
would stay the younger man’s intent. “There has 
been no sin in what I have done. The sin was be- 
fore me. I have carried the burden of another’s sin 
that God might have a pure soul come to him from 
affliction.” 

“I am not the judge of your motives. I know I 
will take the girl tonight.” 

The troopers in the court could be heard unsad- 
dling the cattle. One gruff voice rang out, “Steady, 
you spavined plug ! Whoa !” it said. “Here, Raol, 
help me hold this Government charger; he’s pulling 
my arms out.” A shout of laughter came from sev- 
eral throats. The priest remained at the door. 

“Listen to me one moment. If after what I say 
you still take the girl from the custody of these 
good nuns, take her and God help you.” 

“Go on. Make it short. I want to inject a little 
of the fear of God into those troopers. They have 
not had the restraining influence of a commissioned 


142 


THE FORSAKEN 


officer for several days. You know about Vben the 
cat’s away, etc.” He stepped: to the window. The 
refractory horse, a powerful roan with a wicked 
eye, was giving two troopers a lot of trouble. One 
of them had hold of the neck halter and was syste- 
matically choking the beast, the other had him 
by the nostrils and was trying to shut off what little 
air might not be cut off by the halter. 

“Mount him, you ass!” Fritz yelled, “and canter 
him around the court till he has some of the ginger 
taken out of him. Here, stop your infernal racket,” 
he added as the men yelled with glee at the trooper’s 
unsuccessful attempt to mount the ugly brute. 
“Here, you runt, that one with the galley mug, shut 
up, or I’ll trouble your digestion with your teeth,” 
Fritz yelled now, quite annoyed at the evident lack 
of discipline. The men immediately subsided, the 
trooper managed to mount the roan and galloped 
him off into the desert. 

“No, sir,” Fritz addressed the priest, who was 
still standing against the door, gray-faced, hag- 
gard, determined. “ Now go on with your tale. 
I’ll give you two minutes.” 

“The minutes you will live now will be branded 
into your soul so deep that you will have them come 
up from nothing again, and again and again. You 
have invaded this peaceful sphere with your brutal 
disregard for everything except the gratification of 


THE FORSAKEN 


143 


your own appetites,” he paused for a moment and 
passed his beautiful white hand across his forehead. 

Fritz stood silently listening, something had 
touched a chord which he had never had vibrated 
before. The impression died almost at its birth. 
“Go on,” he said, with his steady clear dominating 
voice. His sabre lay on the table. He took it up 
now and swung it from the ring near the hilt from 
the little hook in his belt. “It’s strange, but troops 
obey more readily when an officer has the bare steel 
in sight.” He drew his shirt from his belt with a 
motion of his shoulders. “Well, my esteemed 
enemy, go on, I am waiting.” 

“I ask you once more. I am a worker in the 
darkness. Do not go ruthlessly on. Pause now, be- 
fore it is too late. I say it as a servant of God. 
Ride on into the desert with your men. Scatter 
the sands, ride under the stars. Go back to your 
world. Leave this sightless child alone with us. 
Later on, when you are older, you can reflect upon 
your generosity. It is not much I ask. It is ho 
aggrandisement to you to take this child from a 
feeble priest.” 

Fritz laughed his loud sonorous laugh. He 
walked over to the priest, who was still standing by 
the door. “I will take that girl out of this hell 
hole tonight and ride her on the pommel of my sad- 
dle, even as I said. Under the stars, oyer the glit- 


144 


THE FOESAKEU 


tering endless sands, under the pallid moon, and I 
will show her that the sense of sight is not the only 
one to be gratified.” 

“Very well. I have done my best. Listen to me 
for another moment. Monsieur le Lieutenant of the 
Foreign Legion. Eighteen years ago this child was 
born in France, the daughter of a woman of our 
faith. Her father is a man who now lives in New 
York City. His name is Ernst Ferdinand Man- 
teufel. 

Fritz had stepped to the centre table when the 
priest began. He turned facing the priest as he 
listened. The next moment his great tall frame 
lunged forward. “You lie, you bible-backed, snivel- 
ing monk. You lie, damn you.” He took the priest 
by the throat, encircling the slender neck with his 
powerful tapering hands. “I’ll ram that lie down 
your neck till it chokes you.” 

The priest’s face became purple. He made no re- 
sistance. His long white hands hung limp by his 
sides. Fritz lifted him up by the neck and threw 
him violently on the fioor, where he lay gasping 
wildly for breath. After a time the purple color 
gave way to red, then pink and ultimately a death- 
like pallor spread over the thin, haggard face with 
its glorious luminous eyes smouldering like dying 
embers. Fritz watched him from his towering 
height, one hand resting on the little table, the other 
held out from his side ready to move, the massive 


THE FOESAKEN 


145 


shoulders thrown forward, the head slightly bent, 
a picture of latent force, of ready brutality. All this 
crowned with the well made head, the wide blue 
eyes with the deep furrow between the eyebrows. 

“Can you hear me now. Monsieur le Abbe?” he 
asked. 

No answer. 

“Answer me or I’ll make you hear. Can you hear 
me now?” 

The priest nodded his head. 

“Get up.” Fritz said violently. He took the 
priest by the collar of his cossack and yanked him 
to his feet, then flung him forcibly into the chair, 
though he had to steady him to prevent the chair 
from going over. Silence again stole into the room. 
The priest sat still. Only his chest labored heavily 
for air. 

“Tell me more of this,” Fritz began. “If I 
thought it possible, — No, it is utterly, absolutely, 
impossible.” 

“Yet you believe it in your heart,” the priest said 
faintly. “You know now as I look at you, as you 
look at me, that it is true. Now if you want to take 
her, go on.” 

“Yes, by God, now I’ll take her more than ever. 
I’ll take her out of this hole on and on under stars 
and moon and sun, away from here to where she 
belongs. By the eternal God, I’ll make her life 
what it should be.” 


146 


THE FORSAKEN 


“It can be nothing with her sightless eyes.” 

“It can be a damned sight more than it is here. 
Playing the organ for your rotten ritual and your 
nuns, or perchance for some overfed prelate. Not 
much. Ho! sergeant.” He ran to the window. 
“Feed your cattle and that riffraff of a corporal’s 
guard. Water the horses. Break into the damned' 
nunnery and feed yourselves. Take anything in 
sight. Raise such hell as was never seen. We start 
at sunset.” He turned to the priest, who was yet 
sitting silently on the chair. “You will see how 
they will obey me.” He unhooked the bare blade 
from his waist, split the mirror with a sweep, 
kicked the door open with his heavy booted foot and 
strode out of the room. 

Just as the sun went down they rode off. The 
Lieutenant of the Foreign Legion at the head of 
a column of eight troopers and a sergeant. One 
great strong horse carried the Lieutenant, and on 
its withers was a figure carefully covered up. She 
leaned her head against the rider’s shoulder, but he 
did not kiss the full young lips. 

In the convent room the shadows deepened. A 
bent figure sat silently and alone with a seared 
chin resting on a slender white hand. In the nun- 
nery many prayers went up to heaven, and out on 
the desert the moon shone on a troop of horsemen 
slowly riding north. 


CHAPTEE XII. 


At Ath Sefra Fritz found that a tent city had 
sprung up like mushrooms since he left. Artillery, 
cavalry and infantry were deploying in the open 
fields. A division of thirteen thousand troops had 
been bumped over the single track railway in a 
week. Orderlies on sweating horses galloped back 
and forth carrying large oblong envelopes in their 
belts. Infantry soldiers stood around in groups, 
at the end of company streets, near the field kitch- 
ens. The company cooks were busily engaged stir- 
ring bean soup in enormous pots, while others 
turned greasy looking chunks of meat over wood 
fires. 

Shoes, boots and leggings were covered with dust. 
In one company street two dogs were fighting 
viciously. A group of soldiers encouraged them 
with yells of laughter and profane language. A 
giant first sergeant of cavalry elbowed his way to 
the contestants. He picked a dog np in either hand. 
They remained locked. One, a white bull bitch, 
had the other, a mongrel, by the throat. The mon- 
grel had the bitch by the foreleg. The sergeant 
swung the mongrel by the tail, bringing the bull 
against a tent post. The bull let go. So did the 
mongrel. The bull remained lying on the sand, 


148 


THE FOESAKEN 


panting heavily. “That is my dog,” a tall lean in- 
fantry man said, indicating the mongrel, which the 
sergeant still held by the tail. The beast was badly 
cut and blood dripped from a gaping wound in the 
throat. 

“Take your relative then,” the sergeant said. He 
swung the dog by the tail and brought the wriggling 
bloody mess across the infantry man’s face. The 
latter sputtered like a man who has been pushed 
overboard. The sergeant picked up the bull bitch 
and walked on. The bystanders dispersed', most of 
them laughing. The sergeant went on to his quar- 
ters. 

No one paid any attention to Fritz and the girl 
he was leading by the hand. 

At last an infantry soldier who was washing his 
undergarments in a pail, told him where to find 
the commanding officer’s quarters. 

Fritz presented himself at the General’s tent. He 
was sitting under his tent flap dictating to a clerk 
in duck trousers and flannel shirt, who was punch- 
ing away at a portable typewriter fastened to the 
end of a long trunk. Fritz told the commander 
enough of his tale to obtain transportation to 
Algiers. 

“We will move the entire troop except a rear 
guard tomorrow,” the General said finally. “Sorry 
you can’t serve with me. But under the circum- 
stances you had best return. Fouchard was killed. 


THE FORSAKEN 


149 


Twenty men got away and made El Mangur. They 
were in bad shape when they arrived. We got the 
first news of the calamity through you 'from Be- 
noud. I congratulate you on your escape. Give 
my compliments to Moreau. If you feel like coming 
back I will be glad to have you on my staff.” 

“I have one more request to make,” Fritz said. 
“I want to Avire to Algiers a message to be cabled 
from there. Can I have the wire used for that 
purpose?” 

“Orderly, my signal officer,” the General called. 

A neatly uniformed youth appeared in a moment. 

“Clear the Perragaux for a message which Mon- 
sieur Lieutenant Manteufel will give you,” the Gen- 
eral ordered. “I beg your pardon. Lieutenant 
Ricord, allow me to present you to one of the sur- 
vivors of Oglat-Tulla.” 

The men shook hands. Fritz thanked the com- 
mander and went with Ricord to the telegraph 
tent. Twenty instruments were clicking away with 
such a din that it seemedi incredible that any of the 
operators could read a word. However, most of 
them were calmly smoking pipes and industriously 
making pencil marks on little yellow pads. 

Fritz Avrote on a piece of yellow paper: 

“General Jean Baptiste Moreau. Via Perra- 
gaux. Cable Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel. Start 
for Paris at once. Find letter at Recamier’s head- 
quarters which will explain. Fritz.” 


150 


THE FOKSAKEN 


A lean sergeant of signal corps took the message. 
He smoked a limp looking cigarette, while another 
stuck behind his ear. 

“Is this to be coded?” he asked Ricord. 

“No; universal method,” Fritz answered. “I do 
not want any mistake in transcription.” 

“Will you dine with us at headquarters,” Ricord 
asked Fritz as they elbowed their way through the 
group of orderlies crowding into the signal tent. 

“No, thank you. I have a lady whom I am tak- 
ing to Algiers. I will procure food for her at the 
Canteen.” 

A drunken Zouave obstructed the way. Fritz 
kicked him aside. The Zouave landed on his face 
in the dust. 

Fritz yanked him to his feet. “That will teach 
you manners, you drunken idiot,” he said. “Au 
revoir, Ricord,” he added, holding out his hand to 
the young signal officer, who was gazing admiringly 
at the tall staff officer. “Disembowel a couple of 
those black bastards for me when you get at it.” 
He waved his hand and returned to his blind sister, 
who was sitting beside the soldier with his pail, 
waiting patiently in the glaring sun. 

At the railroad station an orderly approached 
Fritz with a message from Moreau. 

“Have wired for special car to be affixed to train 
at Perragaux. God bless you.” It read. 

Fritz put his arm around, .the tall girl who was 


151 


THE FOESAKEN 

standing beside him. She leaned her head against 
his shoulder. 

“We will soon be where you will have rest, Leah,” 
he said gently. 

“I go where you lead me, Friedericb,” she an- 
swered. “And God goes with us both.” 

On the train Fritz wrote the entire tale to his 
father. “Come as fast as you can to Algiers,” he 
went on. “I have had something new come into my 
life. Riding over the desert with my blind sister 
has done something to me. I have no idea of mak- 
ing you understand what it is. I do not plead for 
her. I do not plead for myself. I have no criticism 
to offer on you. But I want you to have the chance 
to do what is in your heart. I have never looked 
into your heart, Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel. I 
do not ask that you take this sightless child into 
your arms now. Only I want you to have the 
chance, and if you want her not, then give her to 
me. 

“She is sitting now near me with her blind eyes 
directed against the sun. She is beautiful. I did 
not tell her who she is. That is for you to say when 
you come. But come, and do not let the Man- 
teufel characteristics hold you for an instant! 
(Signed) Friederich Manteufel.” 

At Perragaux he mailed the letter to Recamier’s 
headquarters in Paris, that it might go straight to 
the coast and on from Oran to Malaga. The train 


152 


THE FOESAKEN 


should have arrived at Algiers at six in the after- 
noon. Owing to the heavy traffic of supply trains 
going to Ath Sefra many delays occurred, despite 
the fact that orders had been issued to send the 
train bearing Manteufel through without delay. It 
was nine o’clock before Algiers was reached. 

Moreau had arranged to dine his staff at his own 
house that night at seven in honor of the return- 
ing officer. When the telegraph instrument told 
him that the arrival was not possible until nine he 
had dined the men and sent them out on the ve- 
randa to smoke. He walked back and forth now in 
his study, resplendent in full uniform, his decora- 
tions strung across his chest. 

“I never saw you so worked up' before, Jean,” 
Hortense Laborde said from her inevitable divan. 
“Do sit down. He will get here all right.” 

“I am fonder of that young rascal than you think 
for,” Moreau answered. “Ah! here he comes. 
Hello ! that is a coach. He must be ill. I sent his 
orderly with his mare to the station.” The grating 
of a vehicle came up from the gravel road leading 
to the house. A moment later Fritz stepped into 
the room. He had not gone to his quarters to 
change his uniform, and stood now with his hand 
at his visor opposite the commander. 

Moreau reached out his hand. “Thank God you 
are here, Fritz. Come sit in this big chair,” Mo- 


THE FOESAKEN 


153 


reau said with a little catch in his voice. “Tell me 
about yourself. Here, take some brandy.” He 
poured some brandy from a caraffe standing to- 
gether with three coffee cups on a taburet near 
Hortense’s elbow. 

Fritz remained standing. “Before I do anything, 
General Moreau, I want you to listen to the end of 
my tale. Later I will tell you of the fight.” 

Fritz, still standing, with the dust of the desert 
on his boots, in his hair, on his face, told his com- 
mander the tale. Moreau, too, stood up in the cen- 
tre of the room, the light from the shaded bulb fall- 
ing softly on his slowly setting face. He did not 
interrupt Fritz, but let him go on to the end. Only 
a deep fold appeared between the ^ark eyebrows, 
and when Fritz finished he passed his hand across 
his eyes as though he wished to see better. 

The woman on the divan had risen to her elbow, 
as Fritz went on. They all stared mutely into each 
other’s faces when the tale was done. 

“And this child is here now in Algiers?” Moreau 
asked. 

“She is in the coach at the door,” Fritz answered. 

“Lead her in, Fritz.” 

When Fritz brought her in, Moreau still stood in 
the centre of the room. The woman on the divan 
still rested on her elbow. Fritz held the child by 
the hand. She had an artillery officer’s cape over 
her shoulders, covering the white gown. Her thick 


154 


THE FOKSAKEN 


brown hair hung somewhat disheveled a'uuuL the 
rigid head. 

Moreau went to her and took her by the hand and 
led her to the light. Her sightless eyeballs seemed 
to stare into space. Moreau silently looked at her 
placid face. “There is no doubt about it, Fritz,” 
he said after a time, and he bent over and kissed 
her on the white smooth forehead. 

“Orderly!” Moreau called loudly. The orderly 
appeared at the door. “ My compliments to Colo- 
nel Majendi. I desire him to come here for a mo- 
ment. You will find him on the veranda with the 
rest of the staff.” 

The woman on the divan rose. “You are tired, 
dear,” she said, placing her hand: on the girl’s arm. 
“Come, here sit on this divan.” 

“I am not tired,” the toneless voice answered. 

“Are you not afraid to be with strangers?” Hor- 
(ense asked. “Come, sit here. Let me take your 
( ape.” She led the girl to the divan. 

“No, I am not afraid. I go where Fried erich 
leads me.” 

Fritz stood yet erect, near the door frame. Not 
a muscle moved in his tense set face. Moreau 
stepped to the tabouret. “You will have some coffee, 
Fritz?” he asked. “Mademoiselle will have some, 
loo. Come, I will put two pieces of sugar in for 
\ou both. It will help sweeten your problem for 
you.” 


THE POESAKEN 


155 


Colonel Majendi appeared at the door. He was a 
heavily built man past middle life, with a square 
jaw and deep set dark eyes. 

“Majendi,” Moreau said, “look at that girl’s 
eyes.” Majendi led the girl to the light and re- 
moved the shade from the bulb. “She was born 
blind, I fancy,” he said after a few moments. His 
voice broke the silence. Fritz had folded his arms 
as Majendi came in. Moreau had placed the sugar 
tongs on the tabouret and faced the center of the 
room. 

“Yes,” the girl answered. “I have never seen 
anything, sir. Your hands are strong, sir, I can 
feel your heart beat in your fingers.” 

“Hortense,” Moreau said, “take Mademoiselle to 
the blue room. See that she is taken care of. Go.” 

The woman led the girl away. 

“Can anything be done, Majendi?” Moreau 
asked. His voice was even and composed. Only 
a small bead of perspiration made a shimmer on 
his forehead close to the gray, carefully brushed 
hair. 

“She has what is called congenital cataract,” 
Majendi said after a pause. He lighted a cigarette. 
“An operation in the hands of an expert would re- 
store her sight. I would not undertake it myself. 
If she were sent to Paris, Hartmann would no 
doubt succeed.” 


156 


THE FORSAKEN 


“Orderly,” Moreau’s sonorous powerful voice 
rang out, “My signal officer.” 

Again silence fell into the artfully lighted cham- 
ber. Neither Moreau nor Manteufel moved. The 
latter still stood near the door frame, with the dust 
of the desert on his faded blouse. Still he kept his 
arms folded over his chest. 

Majendi smoked on. He had been appointed a 
staff surgeon from civil life. Before this he had 
been a scientist and worked in the hospitals. He 
had accepted the appointment on Moreau’s staff be- 
cause he wanted to be with Moreau. Then, too, he 
wanted a change. He got it in Algiers. Like all 
scientists, the emotional side of afflictions did not 
concern him. He sipped at the coffee from the cup 
nearest him, remaining standing, however, because 
the etiquette of his environment made it obligatory 
for him to remain standing as long as his chief did. 
On the whole he was bored and wanted to get back 
to his creme de menthe and the good stories that the 
Captain of Engineers out on the veranda knew how 
to tell. 

The signal officer appeared. 

“Clear the Paris wire,” Moreau ordered steadily. 
“Get headquarters. Tell them I, Jean Baptiste 
Moreau, want Professor Hartmann to take a spe- 
cial for Marseilles tonight. He is to be prepared to 
operate for congenital cataract. He will find trans- 
portation at Marseilles. Then wire Marseilles to 


THE FOESAKEN 


157 


hold the Dolphin until he arrives. See that he is 
met at the train. Keep me informed of the result 
and subsequent movements. You may go.” 

The signal officer withdrew. Moreau handed 
Fritz a coffee cup. The signal officer’s horse could 
be heard galloping down the highway. 

Fritz dropped his arms. Moreau still held: the 
coffee cup toward him. “Come, Fritz. Let it 
sweeten the problem of life for you. Somewhere it 
is written that good will come from evil. We will 
let Majendi go back to his comrades, and you and 
I will talk together as I would have loved to talk 
to a son.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“You prefer to go to the Bishop yourself, Fritz?” 
Moreau asked with a faint smile. “He will come 
here if I send for him. You are impatient. You 
are barely rested from your journey, and Hartmann 
will be here tonight.” 

“I do not want any rest, nor do I want any spe- 
cial consideration shown this proposition. I do 
not want the church awed by display. I will go to 
the Bishop alone and he will do as I say.” 

“No doubt he will, Fritz.” Moreau actually 
laughed. “Well, go and see him. I would suggest 
that you bear in mind that he probably had nothing 
to do with the thing, and also that if you smash 
his skull in, you Avill not have the excuse of self- 
defence to plead. Go ahead, my boy, and keep 
your temper.” 

As Fritz turned toward the door the orderly 
entered. 

“Wire for Lieutenant Manteufel,” he said hand- 
ing Fritz the message. Fritz read it aloud. “Start 
on ‘La Gascoyne’ today for Havre. Ernest Man- 
teufel.” 

“I hope he will love her,” Fritz said, “and I hope 
she can see him when he comes.” 

“If that is your mood, you had better wait until 


THE FOESAKEN 


159 


tomorrow to see the gentleman of cloth,” Moreau 
answered with another smile. “I think you’d better 
take an absinthe.” 

“No, thank you, sir ; I am off.” 

He strode toAvard the door, and a moment later 
lifted his mount into a gallop from rest. A tiny 
drop of blood fell from the flank to the white high- 
way. 

A thin pale man with closely cut black hair and 
unsteady eyes opened the door of the Bishop’s resi- 
dence and shoAved Fritz into a long darkened cham- 
ber furnished in black Avalnut and horse-hair fur- 
niture. “Whom shall I announce. Monsieur?” the 
man asked as though he feared to raise his voice. 

“Tell your master that Friederich Manteufel of 
the general staff wishes to see him, and be quick 
about it.” 

“This is not His Grace’s hour for seeing callers, 
sir,” the man answered timidly. “Can you not 
come back at four o’clock.” 

“I don’t care a damn about his hours. Deliver 
my message, or I’ll cut your ass’s ears off.” 

The man AvithdreAV. Fritz Avalked the floor, his 
heavy booted footfalls resounded through the foyer 
hall. Once his sabre scabbard knocked against an 
ebony pedestal holding a marble bust of Pius the 
Ninth. It knocked the stain off, revealing white 
wood beneath. 

The Bishop came in. He held a trained canary 


160 


THE FOESAKEN 


on the forefinger of his left hand. He walked al- 
most noiselessly, yet carried his round little body 
with some grace. He was quite white haired and 
had deep set gray eyes and a broad nose. He was 
known as a benevolent kindly gentleman w'ho fol- 
lowed the ritual and ate good dinners. 

‘‘You are one of the survivors of Oglat-Tuilla?” 
he said as he approached Fritz, who had turned 
sharply as he heard the faint footsteps come nearer. 

“Yes, I am Lieutenant Manteufel. How much 
time can you give me?” 

“As much as you need. I was about to dictate 
some letters to my secretary, but they can wait. 
Is your business urgent?” 

“If you will sit down and make me feel less like 
an unwelcome visitor I’ll tell you all about it.” 

The man who had let Fritz in passed the door. 

“Here, Jules,” the Bishop called, “take my little 
companion away.” He handed the bird to the man, 
who hurriedly withdrew. 

“Now, Monsieur, I am ready,” the Bishop said, 
taking his place in a stiff -backed chair and folding 
his hands across the round little abdomen. 

“After I retreated from Oglat-Tuilla,” Fritz be- 
gan, “I made Bou Aroua. I stayed at the convent. 
There was a woman there who acted as an organist. 
You know whom I mean?” 

“Go on. Monsieur Manteufel,” was the noncom- 
mittal answer. 


THE FOKSAKEN 


161 


“She is blind. I became interested in her. The 
factors which made me act as I did are none of 
your business. In the end I resolved to take her 
with me. There was a priest there, an Abbe Her- 
rara, a Jesuit, a Spaniard. He told me that the 
girl is my half-sister. He did that to save her from 
a terrible fate. I believe he tells the truth. I know 
there is some queer history to this. I have sent for 
my father — this girl’s father. He is coming to 
Algiers. I want that Herrara here when he comes. 
And I want the whole story here in this room, from 
his own lips, if I have to choke it out of him.” 

The Bishop listened quietly. He raised his hand 
now. 

“You are hasty, my friend,” he said. “There 
must have been some good reason for this. The 
church is infallible, yet its servants err at times. 
I will look into this matter. The church is always 
just. If you have a grievance it will be taken care 
of.” 

“I don’t care anything about the adjudications of 
the church. I want this swine of a Herrara brought 
here to wait until Ernest Manteufel arrives. If 
there be any procrastination about it I’ll go after 
him myself and drag him here by the slack of that 
ill fitting cossack of his.” 

The Bishop did not answer at once. The deep set 
eyes took on an intent expression. 

“Did you hear me?” Fritz said menacingly. “By 


162 


THE FORSAKEN 


God, Moreau will make suck kavoc as never was 
unless you do as I say.” 

“Has tke department commander been informed 
of this?” the Bishop asked, with slightly accentu- 
ated intonation of voice. 

“He has, but I do not hold that over your head. 
I withdraw that. I’ll take care of this proposition 
myself.” 

“Calm yourself. Monsieur Manteufel. The Abbe 
Herrara Avill be sent for at once. The matter will 
be cleared up. Compose yourself.” 

“I am composed,” Fritz said. He looked it Avith 
his handsome clear eyes looking straight at the 
little figure in its black colored chair. “Write the 
message. I Avill forward it over the Government 
wire.” 

The Bishop wrote the message and Fritz swung 
into the saddle. In a few moments he rushed into 
Moreau’s study and waved the paper high over his 
head. 


CHAPTEE XIV. 


The gangplank met the ‘‘Dolphin’s” companion- 
way. Friederich Manteufel stood very still, very 
erect, very properly uniformed, from the shining 
visor to the polished spur. Ernest Ferdinand Man- 
teufel stepped lightly to the pier. The gray of the 
temples had slid over the entire head and engulfed 
the beard and moustache. The shoulders were just 
as square, the eyes just as clear, and the defiant, 
well posed figure just as well groomed in gray as 
it was eighteen years before. 

Fritz’s gauntlet went to his visor. The elder man 
removed his hat and held out his hand encased in 
a gray silk glove. 

“I have the honor to greet you, sir. I welcome 
you to Algiers,” Fritz said without moving his eyes 
from the elder man’s face. The men’s eyes were 
quite on a level. 

“Thank you. Monsieur le Lieutenant,” the elder 
man replied. 

“Shall we gain terra firma? I still hear the gur- 
gle of water under my feet.” He replaced his hat. 
Fritz led him to the waiting coach. 

The elder man drew back as they reached the 
coach, the door of which was held open by Moreau’s 


164 


THE FOKSAKEN 


own orderly resplendent in white duck and freshly 
polished boots. 

“Allow me,” Fritz said with the least touch of 
stiffness in his speech. He motioned to the elder 
man to enter and stepped in after him. “To the 
Commander’s residence,” he ordered the boy. 

Ernest Ferdinand Manteufel extracted a cigar- 
ette from a very flat gold case which had a coat of 
arms in blue enamel on it. “You will have a cigar- 
ette, yes?” he asked Avith that occasional touch of 
Germanism which neither time nor education ever 
quite obliterates. “Or do you not smoke in uniform 
in the view of the public?” 

“Algiers is more tolerant than Berlin, sir,” Fritz 
answered. He struck a match on the hilt of his 
sabre and held it while the elder flred his cigarette. 
The posture gave him an opportunity to study the 
face beside him more closely. It was as composed 
as though its bearer had just stepped out of his 
dressing-room to go to dinner. 

“I have told my man to await my orders on 
board,” Ernst Manteufel said. “Where do we drive 
to?” 

“Orderly,” Fritz called to the soldier who had 
mounted beside the driver, “go back to the steamer. 
Find Dr. Manteufel’s man. Tell him to arrange the 
baggage to be sent to General Moreau’s home Then 
bring him there yourself.” 

The orderly saluted and dismounted. 


THE POESAKEN 


165 


“Is this girl at General Moreau’s home?” Dr. 
Manteufel asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I would prefer to have her identity cleared up 
technically before I see her.” 

“That has been arranged for. The interview at 
the Bishop’s house is at eight o’clock. We dine at 
seven. Though the girl’s eyes have entirely healed, 
she does not dine with us.” 

“Very well, that will do. The last letter from 
you which I found at Paris, tells me that Hartmann 
has succeeded. He is an able operator. However, 
if she had congenital cataract, this should not have 
presented any difficult surgical problem. Most of 
those cases do well when they are properly handled. 
Has Hartmann gone back to Paris?” 

“Yes, sir. He left this morning. He asked me 
to give you his best regards.” 

“I imagine this Algerian experience has done you 
good. Monsieur le Lieutenant,” Ernst Manteufel 
said next. The coach drove near some enormous 
white lilies growing close beside the road. The 
speaker threw his cigarette at one of the flowers 
and it fell into the open petals. He laughed quite 
loudly, throwing back his head. “It is a great thing 
to hit what you aim at,” he said. “Only don’t aim 
too high. It costs too much to make the projectile 
reach.” 

Fritz sat silently in the smoothly running coach. 


166 


THE FOESAKEN 


the sabre between his legs, his hands folded over 
the hilt, looking fixedly ahead. 

The coach turned into the gate at the Comman- 
der’s residence. Sloreau stood at the head of the 
steps, in immaculate Avhite pique, with only the 
decoration of the Legion of Honor around his neck. 

“I have the honor to welcome you to Algiers, sir,” 
he said in his quiet even voice as he shook hands 
with his guest. 

He led the men to his favorite corner of the ve- 
randa, Avitli its striped awning and wicker furni- 
ture. 

Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel lighted a fresh cigar- 
ette, and sipped cold absinthe as he watched the 
slanting sun rays play on the ripples of the Medit- 
erranean intermittently visible through the foliage. 

‘‘It is half after six. Doctor Manteufel,” Moreau 
said after a time. “Your luggage must be in your 
room by this time. I have had my adjutant see to 
the customs.” He clapped his hands and ordered 
the butler to show his guest to his room. Moreau 
and Fritz rose as the elder man left. Fritz re- 
mained standing for some time, a tall unbending 
figure outlined against the green foliage. 

“Sit down, Fritz,” Moreau said. “Be patient. 
The man is confronted with something. A man 
who, on such an errand, talks about the mechanism 
of the engines that brought him four thousand 


THE FOESAKEN 


167 


miles, never forgets to tie his necktie accurately. 
You have much to learn yet.” 

“I wanted just one gentle word. I wanted just 
to have him put his hand on my knee when the 
damned coach lurched around a corner. I wanted 
to catch a more softly atuned note in that magnifi- 
cent clear voice of his. General Moreau, none of 
these happened. I tremble for the end. He looks 
always past me. As if he saw something more 
than I can see.” 

“I love you for that, Fritz. Yet be patient, and 
come have another absinthe.” 

At precisely fifteen minutes before seven Doctor 
Manteufel presented himself in the General’s study, 
in full evening dress, the decoration of Bolivar 
around his neck. 

Moreau presented him to Hortense Laborde. 
Doctor Manteufel touched his lips Avith her wrist. 

At seAmn dinner Avas served. Doctor Manteufel 
carried the brunt of the conversation and carried 
it Avell. He talked AAuth equal ease of military prob- 
lems, of the best method of icing champagne, of the 
Avinner of the Derby, of art, of literature. Never 
did he fall short of a brilliant ansAver. Never did 
h(' fail to make an adroit remark. 

At ten minutes to eight the men drove to the 
Bishop’s house. The man Avith the closely croppeJ: 
black hair and the deeply set shifting eyes opened 


168 


THE FORSAKEN 


the door. He led the three men into a little stndy 
opposite the large long room in which Fritz had had 
his first interview. 

The room was quite dark save for a green shaded 
lamp which stood on the edge of a large square 
mahogany desk standing in the centre of the room. 
The room had a bay window opening out on the 
lawn and the evening breeze from the water blew 
the simple net curtains toward the interior. A 
large comfortable divan rested along one wall and 
several heavy upholstered chairs were placed about 
in various positions. 

In a few moments the Bishop entered, his round 
smooth face a little pale. “The Abbe Herrara will 
be here in a moment,” he began in his soft gentle 
voice. “Be seatedi gentlemen. This is a most disi- 
tressing affair. I must say I have been quite dis- 
turbed. Do be seated. Monsieur Lieutenant Man- 
teufel,” he said turning to Fritz, who stood lean- 
ing against the window frame. “The matter will 
be ended to the satisfaction of all. Please, I beg 
of you. Monsieur le Commandant, this is very pain- 
ful to me — I have no doubt to all of us.” 

“Permit me to present to you Monsieur le Doctor 
Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel,” Moreau said quietly. 

Ernst Manteufel bowed. “I do not wish to cause 
you any annoyance,” the elder man said with much 
the same method of expression he had used at Mo- 
reau’s dinner table. “However, it seems to me that 


THE EOKSAKEN 


169 


this is not a (question of your distress. It is merely 
an inquiry regardini^ certain facts which we want 
to clear up. I hope iMonsieur Herrara will not de- 
lay very long.’’ 

That moment the Abbe Herrara came in. His 
tall figure had liecome still more gaunt. The tan 
of his cheek had faded to a, pale yellow, and his 
shoulders had become more bent. He stood now 
just within the threshold facing the three men — 
Moreau erect, placid, immovable, Ernst Ferdinand 
Manteufel composed, impassive, with the faint trop- 
ical breeze barely disturbing the wisps of hair at 
his temples, Fritz dark browed with glittering omi- 
nous eyes standing higher than all the rest now, 
in liis indiignation, yet resting (juietly his begaunt- 
leted hand on the back of the velour chair beside 
the Avindow. For a moimait neither spoke. The 
little llishop j)laA"ed nervously Avith the fringe of 
the silk piece under the lamp. 

^^(’oiue nearer. Monsieur le Abbe Herrara,” Doc- 
tor ]\Tanteufel said, fam y you knoAV Avho I am.” 

The priest stepped slightly forward, but he did 
not ansAver. 

^A"ou hear Avhat 1 say, do you not, ^fonsieur le 
Abl)e?’’ Doctor ^lanteufel Avent on. 

^A"es, ^lonsieur ^Mantc^ufel," Herrara ansAvered, 
almost in a Avhisper. hear you Avell enough.” 
The light from the lamp fell more strongly on his 
face. The great luminous eyes caught the light. 


170 


THE FORSAKEN 


“What was the name of the mother of this girl?’’ 
Doctor Manteufel asked, still quiet in his voice, 
yet no menace in his pose. 

“Her name was Agnes Vanderlyn," the priest 
answered, more clearly now. “She died at Fos, 
on the shore of the Mediterranean. She told me 
her tale. I offer no apology for what I did. The 
child was conceived in sin. I took her for the Lord. 
I took her away. I took her with her affliction to 
peace and rest.’’ 

“Never mind that,’’ Doctor Manteufel put in. 
“Did the Avoman tell j^ou that 1 was the father of 
her child? That’s what I want to knoAv. AnsAA’er 
yes, or no.” 

“Yes. She did. She told it to me with the hand 
of death upon her. She did not lie. She begged me 
to take her child to another country, aAvay from 
where anyone Avould knoAV. I took her. I carried 
the burden of your sin, Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel. 
T taught her the Avay. 1 saw her grope her blind 
way year after year, from babyhood on, until I 
felt the music in her and 1 taught her to Avrest 
those tuneful notes from inanimate keys which you, 
Friederich Manteufel, heard in her desert home.” 
He stepped. noAv to the centre of the room. The 
stooping shoulders straightened up, the glorious 
luminous eyes shone in tlie lialf light. “And she 
has been mine for all these year's, mine to teach. 


THE fok^«;akex 


171 


mine to grow to womanhood, mine to guide 
her sightless life, to mold it as I wished, until you, 
Friederich Manteufel, with your drunken feet, with 
the blood of battle on your uniform, strode ruth- 
lessly into her life and took her aw ay. It was you, 
Friederich Manteufel, who broke into her life and 
dragged her away on the pommel of your saddle, to 
the end from which I w^ould have saved her. Where 
do you lead her to? Tell me where?’’ He turned 
to the elder man. ^‘Where can you lead her to, with 
her accursed heritage, under the guidance of your 
sinful life? The mother did not have her because 
of you, Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel. She had her 
because she wanted to bear a child unmarred by the 
affliction of her first born, and you came to curse 
the second still more. And I w ould take her now' 
again. I ask you, her father, to give her back to 
me, not as a priest, but as a man, and I will take 
her again to another country, even as her mother 
pleaded, to w here no one w ill knoAv. I Avill repu- 
diate my VOW'S, I Avill take her for myself, for my- 
self, and I will lead her blind life until the end. 
You can not Avant her. You can not lead her.” 

Not until then did the men move. Not until then 
did Friederich Manteufel move his spurred boot. 

Moreau reached out his hand. ^^One moment, 
Fritz.” He toyed Avith the decoration on his breast. 

^n)o you knoAv that the girl can see noAV? Do 


172 


THE FOESAKEN 


you know that you kept her siglitless for eigliteen 
years Avhen she could liave lieeu made to see?^’ 
Moreau asked. 

^^I)id you know that all through tliese eighteeii 
years ?'^ Dr. Alanteufel asked at last, with a ring in 
Ids voice. ^M)id you know that you took from me 
the right to formulate lier life? Did you know the 
sin was not that of the dejnl mother, not mine, but 
that it Avas tlie sin of the clmrcii when it robbed 
lier of the right to bear a healthy child? Did you 
knoAv that Avhen it said ^No, you must go on as we 
have ordained,’ that the church inade the harlot 
and its servant the tool for a greater crime?’’ 

^^No, I did not kiiOAv her sight had been restored,” 
Herrara answercMl in a whisper. His shoulders 
drooped again, and the thin Avhite fingers fumbled 
shakily at the buttons of his cossack. ^^She Avould 
not go witli me iioav. T am an old man. l>ut,” again 
he drew himself up as high as lie (‘ould with the 
haggard eyes staring full into the elder Manteufel’s 
face. with'draAv nothing that I said. I \oyq her. 
1 love her. I love her. I am. not ashamed of it. 
If I spend the rest of time expiating it I will say 
it again and again. I love her, Ernst Ferdinand 
^lanteufel. I love her, Friederich Manteufel. 1 
love her. Monsieur le Commandant Jean Haptiste 
Moreau. I hwe h(m. Monsieur Eishop Raguet. I 
Avill loA^e her until the end of time. Take her oft; 
take her Avith yonr uniforms and your decorations. 


THE POKSAKEN 


173 


I alone could have saved her soul. Only because I 
loved her could she have been saved the curse I 
see written on your faces — ^you of the Manteufel 
race! When you, Friederich Manteufel, kissed her 
blind face in the chapel you escaped with your 
life by a miracle. I had no weapon. That night I 
stole to your room. I waited for you to sleep. I 
was ready to kill you. Kill you like a dog.” He 
walked over to Friederich Manteufel, who stood 
yet by the window with his begauntleted hand on 
the back of the chair. “But you moved every time 
I touched the door. When you choked me with 
your hands I would have given all my hope of ulti- 
mate salvation to be able to strangle you to death. 
Take her then. Take her, take her ” 

Friederich Manteufel raised his right hand and 
struck him to the floor. He lay on his side with 
his face turned toward the elder man. Blood 
trickled down from a wound in his forehead to the 
green carpet. 

“Yes, you are an accursed race, you Manteufels. 
Go, look in the mirror; look at yourselves, both of 
you, with the stamp of the fallen god on your 
faces. Go look at yourselves. Look at the demon 
lines in every feature. Strut on in your ruthless 
fashion, but your sins will And you out.” He sank 
down and buried his face in the bend of his elbow. 

“Come, let us go,” Moreau said. 


174 - 


THE FORSAKEN 


The Bishop bent down and lifted the nnconscious 
man’s head on his knee. 

“I Avonld like to see her tonight, if it be feasible,” 
Ernst Mantenfel said, as the three men mounted to 
Moreau’s veranda. 

They had driven home in silence. Moreau rigid 
in his seat opposite the two Manteufels, the latter 
silently staring out to the moonlit road. 

“I will take you to her,” Fritz answered. 

The foyer was dark and as the younger man 
stepped forward the elder placed his hand on his 
shoulder. Fritz stopped. “I will tum up the light 
if you wish,” Fritz said, afraid to move lest the 
hand on his shoulder might slip away. 

“No, show me the way, Fritz,” the elder man an- 
swered. 

“The .steps make a turn here,” Fritz went on. 
The elder man slipped on the edge of a .step. Fritz 
caught him quickly under the armpit. 

“Thank you,” the elder man said, “it is a new 
sensation to be held up like that.” - 

She Avas seated in a big chair beside a shaded 
electric drop light. She had bent forAvard as she 
heard the men’s heaA^y footfalls on the stairs. A 
light blue kimona fell loosely OA^er her .strong young 
figure. One Avhite slender hand grasped the arm 
of the chair. A nurse in a Avhite and blue striped 
gOAvn and Avhite cap held her hand on her shoulder 
as though holding her doAvn. A pair of amber eye- 


THE FOESAKEX 


175 


glasses lay on the table glittering like two giant 
topazes in the zone of light from the bulb. She 
moved her shoulders with her head as Fritz stepped 
toward her, the habit of eighteen years of sightless 
life. 

Fritz took her by the hand and raised her up. 

^^This is Leah Vanderlyn, father,’^ he said turn- 
ing to the man who stood just within the door, in 
semi-darkness, silent, pale for once, with dark deep 
lines under his gray still eyes. Fritz put his arm 
around the girl’s waist, and turned her slightly 
toward the light. 

^^You are Friederich’s father?’’ the girl began, 
with yet the unvarying pitch of voice of the blind. 

can see you very well where you stand. You are 
like Friederich. I will love you as I love Frieder- 
ich.” She looked up into her half-brother’s face. 

Ernst Manteufel came nearer. He reached out " 
and took the girl by the hand and drew her to him. 
She placed her head on his shoulder and he bent 
down and kissed her on the thick light brown hair. 

will take you with me. To my home over cUe 
sea. I will show you the way that you might tread 
it unguided by other eyes. Will you come?” 

^Wes,” the girl answered with an added note in 
her voice. ^^And Friederich, he comes, too.” 

The elder man looked over the girl’s head at the 
tall young lieutenant of cavalry. 

too, will come, and perhaps you will slip * 


176 


THE FORSAKEN 


again somewhere, and perhaps I will be near 
enough to hold you that you might not fall,” Fritz 
said. 

Ernst Ferdinand Manteufel took the youth by 
the hand, and thus with one in either hand turned 
them to the light. “Yes. It is true,” he muttered. 
“They both have the Manteufel mark.” 


CHAPTEE XV. 


The August night bore heavily on the great city 
jf New York, with its deserted thoroughfares, ex- 
cept for an occasional hansom or a taxicab laden 
with gaily attired women and men in evening 
clothes and straw hats whose wives were lolling 
away the heated term at the seashore or mountains. 

Three men in dinner coats turned into Fifth Ave- 
nue from Fifty-ninth Street and walked leisurely 
south toward the glare. 

“I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an eyening so 
much as this one, Fritz,” one of the men said, turn- 
ing toward the taller of the trio, who walked near- 
est the curb. “You must have had a great time in 
Algiers.” 

“It is only a memory now, Morton,” Fritz said. 
“You see it is five years ago, and time is a great dil- 
uent to human emotions.” 

Freiderich Manteufel’s arrogant face had under- 
gone some softening since the day he so impudently 
rode out under the Algerian stars with the organist 
on the pommel of his saddle. He walked with the 
same self-reliant carriage, still carried his hand- 
some head erect on the dominant shoulders, yet the 
light from the arc lamps along the avenue fell on 
eyes that gazed less provokingly at what they saw. 


178 


THE FORSAKEN 


“You have never heard from your foster sister, 
Manteufel?” the other asked. 

“No, Jack, I never did. It is three years since 
she disappeared. Dad still wanders about looking 
into Avomen’s faces Avith the hope that she AA'ill loom 
up again from someAvhere. I have given it up.” 

They walked on in silence. At Forty-sixth Street 
they paused at a shop AvindoAv to look at some dia- 
monds displayed in a glass case. It Avas very hot 
and close, and as they turned to resume their jour- 
ney Fritz removed his hat. 

“It’s strange hoAV the hair at your temples always 
stands off from your head, Fritz,” Morton said. 
He brushed his finger tips against his friend’s tem- 
ple, but the rebellious hair sprang out almost as 
soon as he released it. 

The shadoAvs from the three men fell on the walk, 
making three silhouettes of A'arying size. Manteu- 
fel’s shadoAV reached farther than the rest. 

Morton placed his hand on Manteufel’s arm. 
“See,” he said, pointing at the shadows, “it makes 
yours look as though you had little horns. Queer, 
isn’t it?” 

Manteufel did not answer at once. They walked 
on to Forty-second Street, and beside the library 
which Avas already pushing, its white facade over 
the top of the old reservoir wall. 

“I have often noticed the peculiarity .you speak 
of,?’ Fritz said at last. “If I Avere superstitious I 


THE FORSAKEN 


179 


Avoul'd regard its manifestation as an evil omen.” 

A tall Avell-made woman appeared under an arc 
light at some distance from the men. She walked 
well and as she drew nearer she drew up her skirt, 
outlining well-booted feet. She drew nearer, pass- 
ing into a deeper gloom and then approached the 
men. She had luxurious light brown hair and 
•wore glasses which shimmered for a moment in the 
light from the arc light near the two. She sidled 
toward them as she came nearer. 

“Are you out for a good time?” she said when 
she was quite opposite them. 

Manteufel gave a short quick gasp, raised his 
hand to his hat, let it fall and went on. 

“I hope he never does find her,” he muttered. 
Then more loudly. “Come, we will go to Martin’s 
and have a night-cap. I am tired and want to get 
some rest. T think I will induce my tired dad to 
go away for a time.” 

In a convent room at Bou Aroua a haggard, 
white-haired priest stood leaning a bent figure over 
the window sili, looking out on the moonlit never- 
ending desert. 

An owl flew aslant the moon rays. It circled 
close to the window, poised for a moment in mid-air. 
Its wings threw a shadow on the silvery sand. It 
flew on, skirting the glittering cross on the dome 
of the main building and winged into the distance. 

FINIS. 


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